A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Yeah, because I’m COMPLETELY PSYCHIC! Jesus.’ Honestly, how thick could you get?

  Ashlee twisted the snib on the Yale lock and pulled the door open till the chain jerked tight. Crammed as much scorn into her welcome as she could: ‘What?’

  She’s wonderfully thin. Magnificently thin. Glaring up at him, her whole skull visible through the pale thin skin.

  He blinks at her, making his bottom lip tremble. His eyes are all red and puffy, like he’s been crying – amazing what you can do with a dab of vinegar on a fingertip. He clears his throat. Puts on his best fake Dundee accent, because that makes it a bit more interesting, doesn’t it? Being someone else. Someone who doesn’t burn inside. ‘I’m … I’m sorry, but I’m trying to find my son.’

  ‘And?’

  He pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket, printed out at home. ‘MISSING! HAVE YOU SEEN SAMUEL (4)?’ Underneath the headline is a photo of a wee boy – dark hair and freckled cheeks, a dimple in his chin. ‘Please: his name’s Sam. He’s only four.’

  A chunky woman walks up the hallway behind the angry young girl, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. Blonde. Curvy. Maybe a bit curvier than Father would have liked, but still pretty with it. ‘Ashlee, don’t be rude to the nice man.’ She reached past her and unclipped the chain. ‘Is he missing?’

  ‘Some woman picked him up from playschool. They said she had dark hair and glasses?’

  ‘Oh, you poor man.’

  The girl, Ashlee, folds her arms and rolls her eyes. ‘Oh very classy, Mother, completely get your hormones on.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her; please, come in.’

  ‘Honestly, ever since “Uncle Eddy” left you’ve been completely horny. Disgusting in a woman your age. Old people shouldn’t be allowed to have sex, ever.’

  The mother’s cheeks darken, but she forces a big smile anyway. Brave little soul that she is. ‘You said his name’s Sam?’

  ‘Sam. Yes.’ Justin steps into the house.

  Father never did get it. All that lying and play acting, dressing up like a priest to make people trust him, using Justin as bait. Silly, when you think about it. Unnecessary.

  You don’t need a little boy pretending to be lost if you wanted to meet women, you just need an imaginary boy and a photo printed off the internet.

  Much easier.

  Justin smiles.

  Strange, it’s been years since he’s used that name, but all this thinking of Father has brought it back. Comfortable and warm as an old jumper, or a pair of cosy socks.

  So Justin takes his smile and follows the girl and her mother into a kitchen warm with the vanilla smells of baking. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out the knife.

  26

  EMERGENCY CALL – 09 Sept at 19 hours 52 minutes and 13 seconds

  OPERATOR: Police Scotland, what’s your emergency?

  CALLER: Oh God, oh God, oh God. [Sobbing]

  OPERATOR: Hello, can you tell me what’s happened?

  CALLER: He’s killing them, he’s … They’re screaming!

  OPERATOR: OK. I need you to give me the address.

  CALLER: Please come … He’s killing them.

  OPERATOR: Where are they? I need an address. Give me the address.

  CALLER: [Screaming] HE’S KILLING THEM! YOU NEED TO COME NOW!

  OPERATOR: I need you to calm down. Listen to me. Listen, we can’t come if you don’t tell me where you are.

  CALLER: I’m at home. I was on the phone to Ashlee and she was answering the door and the man came in and he said he was looking for his missing kid—

  OPERATOR: There’s a child missing?

  CALLER: No, you’re not listening! He said he was looking for it, but he … he … [Sobbing] and they let him in and now they’re screaming!

  OPERATOR: OK. Where are they? I need an address. Where does Ashlee live?

  CALLER: With her mum. Two Twenty-Three Johnson Crescent, in Shortstaine. Please, he’s got a knife …

  OPERATOR: Hold on. [Keyboard noises] Cars are on their way. When did it—

  CALLER: Hurry! You’ve got to hurry, they’re screaming!

  OPERATOR: It’ll be OK. There’s police and an ambulance—

  CALLER: No, listen. They’re on my mobile …

  [Crackling]

  YOUNG WOMAN: [Sound is distorted] [Screaming] GET OFF HER! GET OFF HER! GET OFF HER!

  WOMAN: [Sobbing] Don’t hurt my baby! I’ll do anything you [Screams]

  YOUNG WOMAN: NO!

  [Grunting] [Banging] [Sound of glass shattering]

  CALLER: Please, you have to get there!

  OPERATOR: They’re on their way. Can you tell me your name?

  CALLER: Marline. Marline McFadden. You have to hurry up!

  WOMAN: I didn’t … I didn’t …

  MAN: [Shushing noise] It’s OK. It’s OK.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Mummy?

  MAN: I’ll take good care of you [Too quiet to make out] forever. Won’t that be nice? Forever and ever.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Oh God, she’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.

  OPERATOR: Marline, I want you to record the call for me, will your phone let you do that?

  CALLER: I … Yeah, completely! I’ve got, like, this app that’ll—

  YOUNG WOMAN: Get away from me!

  MAN: They’ll worship you. You’ll be a god and they’ll worship you.

  YOUNG WOMAN: [Screaming]

  27

  Mother stood with her back to the room, facing the murder board with its growing lines of actions and outcomes. ‘You know what I think? I think they need to let us speak to Brett Millar.’

  The blinds were open, letting in the darkness from outside. What little streetlight that managed to make its way around to the back of the billboard tainting the shadows with orange and brown.

  Watt curled his lip, upsetting the bum-fluff line of ginger pretending to be a beard. ‘I talked to a Professor Bartlett over there, he said, and I quote, “Mr Millar is too volatile to remain un-sedated while in this establishment. I will not put my staff, or other patients, at risk.”’

  McAdams shook his head. ‘A doped-up Millar? What use is that to us all? We seek a killer!’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to go round there tomorrow and give this professor the opportunity to change his mind, won’t we?’ Mother turned to face them. ‘Right: home time. You can all go get yourselves a good night’s sleep and come back bushy-tailed and bright tomorrow morning. Briefing will be seven o’clock sharp.’

  Callum stuck his hand up. ‘What about the flash drive?’

  ‘The IT Lab have got it, so we should find out what’s on the thing by …’ she checked her watch, ‘about the dawn of the next Millennium.’ Then Mother stared at them all. ‘Well, come on then: off you go. Home. Shoo.’

  Dotty whizzed her wheelchair around in a tight circle. ‘Pub?’

  ‘No.’ Watt marched out of the room, pulling his jacket on.

  McAdams cupped his hands into a loudhailer: ‘And remember to sign out this time!’ Then a shake of the head and a sigh. Finally a smile pulled at his stubbly-grey Vandyke. ‘Come, fair maiden Dot. Let us go from here to a bar. There to drink much beer.’ He took hold of the handles on the back of her chair and steered her out into the corridor, throwing a parting shot over his shoulder, ‘Dumbarton Arms. Last one there buys the crisps.’

  ‘Boss?’ Callum powered down his computer. ‘If it’s all the same, I’m going to stay and see what’s on the drive.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, the IT Lab won’t even start looking at it for weeks. Dorothy’s right: pub o’clock. It’s about time Rosalind here did some team bonding.’ Mother stuck her hands in her pockets and sauntered out of the office. ‘And it’s karaoke night down the Bart, how more team bonding can you get?’

  Franklin watched the door close behind her. Then groaned. ‘I am not singing karaoke.’

  Callum crept his way between the empty tables, balan
cing two pints of Stella, a half of Guinness, a pint of Old Jock, a gin-and-tonic, and a packet of dry-roasted on a wee tray.

  The Dumbarton Arms wasn’t exactly bustling at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, which was probably why they’d turned the PA system up to a near-deafening roar. The only other patrons were an auld mannie and his Labrador, and a pair of students – young men that were more spots than skin. All of them blinking up at the little stage where a shiny-faced Franklin and Dotty were belting out an old Meatloaf standard about shagging in a car.

  Doing a decent job of it too.

  Callum lowered the tray onto the table and slipped back into the booth. Passed McAdams and Mother their drinks. Then gave Mother her change.

  McAdams took a sip of Guinness. Raised his voice over the musical onslaught. ‘I’d count that if I was you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a misery guts, Andy. Callum has been in the wars and deserves a bit of sympathy.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Callum helped himself to one of the Stellas.

  She nodded at the stage. ‘Rosalind’s settling in nicely, isn’t she?’

  Up there, Franklin was getting to the bit about sleeping on it.

  Mother glanced at him. ‘She says you probably saved her life, earlier. Could’ve died, running into traffic like that, but you stopped her.’

  A shrug, then a gulp of cold lager. ‘We need to find out what’s on that flash drive.’

  ‘Really, Constable MacGregor?’ McAdams let his mouth hang open. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, you must be some sort of genius!’

  ‘Andy, what did I tell you?’

  McAdams chewed on his face for a moment. Then, ‘Sorry, Mother.’

  ‘Better. The problem, Callum, is that there’s a backlog of stuff waiting to be processed by the Forensic IT people. A huge backlog. You can probably see it from space.’

  A nod from McAdams. ‘I took a laptop off a dealer six months ago and they haven’t even powered it up yet.’

  ‘Yes, but this is a serial killer investigation. Surely we can bump it up the priority list.’

  Mother grimaced. ‘Easier said than done. I’ve got no favours left in the IT Lab. How about you, Andy?’

  ‘Do you think I’d wait six months for a laptop if I had?’

  Callum scooted forward in his seat as Franklin and Dotty got to the finale. ‘How about we call a press conference and tell the world we can’t catch this guy, because Police Scotland won’t give us the forensic resources?’

  Mother and McAdams shared a look, then burst out laughing.

  The last triumphant chord battered through the bar. Everyone clapped. Franklin and Dotty took a bow. Then the two spotty students scrambled for the stage as Oldcastle’s finest made their way back to the table, grinning.

  Dotty wheeled herself in next to McAdams. ‘Phew, I’m roasted, is that mine?’ She grabbed the pint of Old Jock and gulped at it.

  Mother beamed at her and Franklin. ‘That was lovely.’

  Up on stage, the young men launched into ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’.

  ‘You see, my dear Constable MacGregor, if it was that easy everyone would do it.’ McAdams took a deep draught of Guinness, getting himself a little white moustache. ‘Police Scotland do not give a toss about being showed up at press conferences. All that’ll happen is they’ll send some bigwigs up from Tulliallan to take over the case, kick us off it, then kick us. Hard. Probably in the genitals.’

  Mother patted him on the shoulder. ‘He’s right.’

  ‘I know it might feel like your career’s halfway down the chunty right now, but they’ll pelt it with used toilet paper and flush like madmen.’

  Oh.

  ‘Well …’ Callum had a good long hard look at his pint. ‘Can we put pressure on the Chief Superintendent instead? He’s not going to want an unsolved serial …’ Sodding hell. ‘It’ll be the same with him, won’t it?’

  ‘And the penny finally drops!’ McAdams gave him a slow round of applause.

  ‘Not telling you again.’ Mother slapped the sarcastic git’s hands. ‘Callum, Andy and I had to fight like wounded badgers so they’d let us keep this case. Any excuse and it’s gone.’

  The whole team slumped a bit at that.

  Up on the stage, the boys danced and warbled their way towards the end of ‘Dancing Queen’.

  Dotty gulped down the last of her beer. Stuck the empty back on the table with a diaphragm-rattler of a belch. ‘So sod them. We find another way!’

  Franklin, Mother, and McAdams just shrugged.

  ‘Come on, are we the Misfit Mob, or aren’t we?’

  McAdams sniffed. ‘Suppose.’

  ‘I can’t hear you, soldier!’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Ma’am, yes ma’am.’

  ‘Could you be more enthusiastic, Andy? I’ve done jobbies with more life in them than that.’

  ‘Enthusiasm brings me out in a rash.’ McAdams downed his Guinness. ‘It probably doesn’t matter, anyway. Unless Brett Millar is our killer, whatever’s on the flash drive has nothing to do with Imhotep.’ He stood. ‘Same again?’

  ‘But it might.’ Franklin was barely halfway down her pint. ‘Anything that helps has to be a good thing.’

  ‘Ah, the naive enthusiasm of youth.’ He grabbed the empties and lumbered off towards the bar.

  ‘Dancing Queen’ finished with a lot of fist bumping and whooping.

  Franklin rubbed her hands together. ‘Who’s up for a bit of Grease? Callum? I’ll even let you sing the man’s part.’

  ‘Yeah … No. Can’t.’ He threw his Stella down his throat. ‘I’ve got a pregnant girlfriend to get back to, and Nutella and pickles to buy.’ He pulled on his coat. ‘You kids have fun, though.’

  ‘Dotty?’

  ‘Oh hell yes.’ And the pair of them wheeched and wheeled themselves off to the stage.

  Mother ripped her way into the peanuts. ‘Andy’s not a bad man, Callum.’

  ‘Does a good impersonation of one.’

  There he was, standing at the bar, knocking back a sneaky whisky while the barman pulled the pints.

  ‘They’ve got him on another round of chemotherapy. Being … colourful is how he copes.’

  Great. Callum puffed out a breath. ‘I’m sorry he’s dying. But now and then, it might be nice if he was “colourful” at someone else for a while, because I’m tired of being everyone’s kicking post.’

  Callum squelched around the supermarket aisles, wheeling a trolley and dripping on the polished floor. Pickled dill cucumbers: check. Nutella: check. Tesco own-brand high-strength paracetamol – not on the official shopping list, but his ear ached like a visit from The Claw, so: check. Bottle of shiraz – definitely not on the official shopping list, but what the hell: check. Multipack of Wotsits: also check, because what was life if you couldn’t push the boat out now and then?

  One of the fluorescent lights flickered down the end of the cold-meats-and-ready-meals aisle, making the packaging glisten and buzz like something out of a horror film. Up above, the corrugated metal roof pinged and thrummed in the rain.

  Be nice to pick up a curry meal-deal for two, but there was tuna casserole waiting at home. Maybe that could be a Friday treat, and sod the budget.

  His phone blurted into life.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  Checked the screen: ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.

  ‘Hello?’

  Callum squelched on through the flickering light, towards the checkouts. ‘Hello? Willow, is this you?’ More silence. ‘It’s OK, Willow, you can talk to me. Is someone threatening your mum?’

  And the line went dead.

  Might be an idea to pop round there tomorrow and make sure her mum hadn’t accidentally developed any more bruises.

  But first: cycle home through the bucketing rain. Dry off. Painkillers. Wine. Tuna casserole. More wine. Bed.

  A decent end to an incredibly crappy day.

  And ab
out sodding time …

  The bike’s lights flickered back from thick dark puddles. Their reflections swept across the dark canopy of leaves overhead, like tiny spotlights. Caught the drips of rain that worked their way through the canopy and made them shine, before disappearing again.

  Camburn Woods lurked in the darkness either side of the path. A huge animal, breathing and rustling in the downpour. Waiting. The council still hadn’t fixed the streetlights in here: most were topped with broken plastic globes and covered in spray-painted swearing. But the occasional one still glowed a pale gold, casting small pools of light to be swallowed by the forest.

  A jogger puffed and plodded into view. A miserable-faced middle-aged man in lycra, lots of wobble as he exercised his way towards a heart-attack. Didn’t even nod as Callum cycled past. Too busy sweating.

  Probably wasn’t the only one out there, sweating and panting in the woods.

  Always a lovely thought.

  Callum stood in the saddle, legs pumping as the path climbed up over a narrow railway bridge. Freewheeled down the other side. About fifty feet further on, the old familiar footpath led off to the left. Soon be home and …

  He coasted to a stop.

  Looked back over his shoulder.

  The bike’s back light cast a blood-red glow that barely touched the forest gloom.

  Could’ve sworn he’d heard something.

  A broken streetlight stood sentinel where the footpath snaked off into the undergrowth, leaving the whole area wrapped in darkness.

  Callum pulled the bike around, twisting the handlebars, sending the front lights sweeping across the path, the trees, the bushes. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing. Just the staccato drip-drip-drip of rain on the canopy floor. The muffled grumble of traffic on the dual carriageway a quarter mile away. The dark-brown bitter-sweet tang of decaying leaves.

  No one there.