A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Aye?’ The office door opened and she peered out at them through a pair of black-rimmed glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

  Watt pulled his warrant card and thrust it under her nose for a second. ‘Detective Constable Watt. I’m here to examine your premises.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘And I’ll need a list of your employees.’

  ‘Will you now?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Soon as you like. We’ve got seven other smokehouses to visit today, so …?’

  She folded her arms, making the fleece bulge. There was a lot of muscle in there – probably all that humping heavy boxes of fish about. ‘So what?’

  Watt leaned in close. ‘So: chop, chop.’

  Great.

  Because that was how you got the public on your side.

  ‘Actually,’ Callum produced his own warrant card, nice and gentle, ‘what my colleague meant to say was, we really need your help. Any chance you can show us around and answer a few questions?’

  Watt stiffened. ‘Thank you, Constable, but I’m dealing with this.’

  ‘Please forgive him. He’s been in a bad mood ever since he got back from the doctor. They can’t do anything about his frighteningly small penis, and it’s upset him a bit.’

  ‘What?’ Watt wheeled around, mouth pinched, eyes bugged, face darkening.

  The woman in the plastic pinny burst out laughing. Then slapped Callum on the back, hard enough to send him staggering. ‘“Frighteningly small penis.” Aye, he looks the type.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you around. You too, Wee Willy Winky.’

  Watt hurled himself into the passenger seat and slammed the car door.

  A bunch of seagulls had taken it upon themselves to respray the windscreen and bonnet with grey and white spatters. All streaked in the rain.

  Callum got in behind the wheel. Started her up and set the wipers going, turning the glass opaque. ‘Who’s next on the list?’

  And explosion in five, four, three, two—

  Watt thumped his hand down on the dashboard. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT?’

  A pull of the squooshers sent two streams of blue foamy liquid into the smears, thinning them. ‘Are we having a grump?’

  ‘How dare you tell that woman I have a small penis!’

  ‘Well, you were acting like a massive dick, so I thought I’d even things out a bit.’ The windscreen was almost clear, so Callum pulled back onto the road. Going slow as the wipers made gaps in the seagulls’ art.

  ‘You can sodding well—’

  ‘Know what? I don’t think people won’t work with you because you clyped on your old team – I think they won’t work with you because you’re crap at the job.’

  ‘You completely undermined me back there—’

  ‘She wasn’t going to tell you anything, Watt. You spoke to her like she needed scraping off your shoe, how was that going to help? You’re rubbish at talking to people.’

  ‘I AM SODDING NOT!’

  ‘Marching in there like the King of Dickland. Look at me, I’m so important!’

  ‘I’m going to report you.’ Watt thumped back in his seat. ‘Soon as we get back to DHQ, I’m putting in a formal complaint.’

  ‘You can’t treat people like that and expect them to help you, you idiot.’

  They’d barely gone a hundred yards before the next smokehouse appeared in the row of ancient buildings. ‘OLDCASTLE SMOKED SEAFOOD SPECIALITIES ~ FABULOUS FISH AT ITS FINEST’ boasted a slick plastic hoarding above a stainless-steel set of double doors.

  ‘I’m a police officer.’

  Callum parked outside the front. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry I told her about your minute genitalia, but if you keep on acting like that people are going to assume it’s microscopic anyway. At least this way we got a list of every staff member and their rota for the last month.’

  The smokehouse had a separate glazed door for enquiries and what looked like a wee factory shop inside.

  He undid his seatbelt. ‘Are you coming, or are you staying here to sulk?’

  Watt scowled at him. ‘God, I hate you.’

  ‘Course you do. That’s because you’re jealous of my jumbo-sized penis.’ Callum climbed out, grinned at the rain-dulled river, then turned and hurried in through the glazed door.

  After a beat, Watt slammed his car door and thumped after him.

  SCALLOWAY HADDIES

  (OLD-FASHIONED, HONEST, & BEST)

  Unit 4, Harbour Road, Logansferry

  Thick greasy coils of smoke filled the room, curling behind them as they stepped inside.

  ‘And this is where the magic happens.’ Mr Smug swept a hand upwards. His white coat almost gleamed in the gloom and so did the white porkpie hat.

  Callum stood in the middle of the room and stared straight up.

  Rows and rows of fish hung, head-down, above – each one suspended by the tail from stainless-steel poles turned yellow by the smoke. Had to be about a thousand of them in here, vanishing up into the smoky heights.

  Three smokehouses in and Watt was still grumping. As if it was Callum’s fault he’d been born with the kind of genital appendage that could only be seen with an electron microscope. Wasn’t his fault that Watt looked like a tit – one hairnet flattening his floppy fringe, another covering his wispy pube-like beard.

  A little oily drip splashed on his shoulder.

  Callum turned to Mr Smug. ‘Is this area ever left unsupervised?’

  ‘What, the smokehouse?’ He curled his top lip. ‘Oh no, no, no, no. This is a twenty-four-seven operation: we supply haddies to Harrods. The only time we shut down is for five days in January to do a thorough deep clean.’

  ‘How about the nightshift?’

  ‘Three staff on at all times. Like I said, it’s a twenty-four—’

  ‘Seven. Yes. Thanks.’

  ABERCROMBIE FISHERIES

  (TRADITIONAL SMOKED FISH SINCE 1826)

  14 Ship Lane, Logansferry

  ‘Oh aye. Aye, aye, aye …’ Mrs Lumps hauled an empty plastic box on top of the full one and laid out a layer of split herrings in the bottom with quick fluid movements. Then topped them with a fistful of salt, flung with casual precision. ‘We’ve been smokin’ fish here, ooh, since the eighteen hundreds. No me personal like.’ She gave Callum a wink that bordered on the obscene, layering up more herring as she went.

  ‘And how many people have access to the smokehouse?’

  ‘Och, just me, Jeemy, and the boy Rodger – that’s him in the dungers on the forkie. Big lump that he is.’ She waved a handful of salt at a bear of a man in dungarees, driving a forklift truck laden with boxes of ice. ‘He’s our Siobhan’s eldest. Well, it’s a family business, ken? Has been since the start.’

  ‘OK, so does—’

  ‘We do a lovely hot smoked salmon with Drambuie, chilli, and lemon zest. Our Hot Toddy Salmon was on the TV, you know. We were a “Food Hero”!’

  ‘Yes, that’s great. But could anyone else have access to the smokehouse?’

  ‘Oh I doubt it.’ Mrs Lumps gave him a big gap-toothed smile. ‘We’ve got the biggest sodding dog you’ve ever seen. Take your arms off soon as look at you would our Winston.’

  LENNOX, BREMNER, & WALLACE

  (LUXURY SEAFOOD SPECIALISTS)

  Unit 2–4 Consort Lane, Queen’s Quay, Castle Hill

  Mr Baldy stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘And that’s it. The grand tour. “Y daith fawreddog.” As they say in Welsh.’

  Rain hammered down on the large concrete yard, bouncing off the piles of empty fish boxes and refrigerated containers. Made rusty streaks down the ten-foot-high walls that blocked off the outside world. The warm rich smell of smoke wafted out around them, billowing from the open double doors through to the processing plant.

  Callum turned. ‘Didn’t know you were Wel
sh.’

  ‘I’m not, no. But I do like leeks. So …’ Shrug.

  ‘Right. Great.’ Why was nobody normal any more? ‘You got a big staff?’

  ‘Sixty-two last count. Most are part time – we went into this job-share scheme thing, couple years ago, and you wouldn’t believe how many single mothers we‘ve got working here now. Had to open a crèche.’

  Which explained the Portakabin in the far corner, behind the containers, all covered in characters from Winnie the Pooh and SpongeBob SquarePants.

  Callum shifted back a bit, till he was underneath the roof of the loading bay again. ‘How many men?’

  ‘Ooh, now you’re asking.’ He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit. ‘Fifteen? No: eighteen. I forgot about Mitch, Spanner, and Dingle.’

  ‘Dingle?’

  ‘Don’t ask. And Spanner’s not much better. What’s the point of employing people if they never turn up? I told, Marge, I told her: we need to fire these idiots, but she’s soft as Angel Delight, she is.’

  ‘How many in their mid-twenties?’

  Mr Baldy did the cheek-chewing thing again. ‘Might help if you told me what this was all about.’

  Watt pulled down his beard net. ‘Sorry, it’s an ongoing investigation so we’ve got to be a bit discreet.’

  Dear Lord, was Wee Willie Wattie actually talking to someone like a human being?

  ‘Ah, right. Got you.’ Mr Baldy nodded, as if that explained everything. ‘I’d have to check the staff records, but I think I can help.’

  32

  Callum stuck the keys in the ignition and pulled out his phone. ‘Hello?’

  McAdams’ voice drawled into his ear: ‘An update I seek, dear Constable Useless, / On Imhotep – killer both nasty and ruthless, / The smokehouses visited, all must be—’

  ‘Yeah, I get the point. We’ve done five of the seven smokehouses in Oldcastle: seen round the premises, spoke to the managers, got lists of staff members: when they’ve been working and where.’

  ‘I had another three verses.’

  ‘Thought you were meant to be busy this morning.’

  ‘If there’s one thing you can say about sitting in the Grim Reaper’s Soulless Anteroom of Death, with a drip full of poison seeping into your veins, it’s that any distraction is a welcome one. Even talking to a lump of gristle like you. Now: An update I seek, dear Constable—’

  ‘We’ve done five, so we’ve got two more to visit in town, and the one over in Strummuir, but …’ He tapped his fingers against the wheel as Watt sagged his way into the passenger side.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ From the car park outside Lennox, Bremner, and Wallace, there was a rain-greyed view across the river to Castleview. Left a bit and there was McKinnon Quay with its background of grim council flats. Squint a bit and you could almost make out the one where Benjamin Harrington died, facedown in bathtub full of brine. ‘All these places: they have to conform to EU directives and health-and-safety and food standards. They get inspected by Environmental Health Officers – and you know what the Cheese Police are like: they spot anything, they shut you down.’ He frowned out at the rain. ‘No. These are commercial enterprises working six days a week, minimum. Someone would notice if you stuck a body in their smoker for a fortnight. It’d get in the way of the kippers.’

  Watt wiped the water from his face and flicked it into the footwell. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘McAdams.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not you: Watt. Thing is, I think our boy’s built his own smoker. Or he’s got access to one that doesn’t operate any more. Somewhere you can smoke a body for weeks without any chance of it being found.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to help, is it?’

  ‘Don’t know. Even if he’s built his own smoker, he’ll have to get the wood he burns from somewhere. Lucy down the mortuary reckons it’s a mix of beechwood and oak. Maybe we should get in touch with whoever it is sells sawdust and woodchips to smokehouses? See how many sales they make to hobby smokers?’

  Watt shook his head. ‘If he doesn’t have to comply with food standards, he doesn’t have to buy commercial-grade sawdust. He can just get a big bag of it from the local sawmill, or someone that does firewood.’

  ‘You get that?’

  McAdams made a hrumphing noise. ‘Or he could just—’

  ‘Andrew!’ A woman’s voice in the background: ‘What did we say about mobile phones?’

  A scrunching noise, and his voice went all muffled. ‘Oh bounteous nymph, I hear thy pleas, / but it’s police business, so sod off, please.’

  ‘And the “please” on the end’s meant to make that all better, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Now be a good nurse and see if you can rustle up a cuppa and a biscuit. I’m wasting away here.’ Then McAdams was back at full volume: ‘Where was I? Ah, yes: Imhotep doesn’t have to buy sawdust at all. He could just get himself a bunch of logs from the forestry commission and make his own.’

  True.

  ‘Worth a try though.’ Callum turned the keys, setting the blowers roaring. ‘How did Dotty and Franklin get on?’

  ‘What am I, your secretary? Finish up with the smokehouses, then the pair of you get back to the shop and start chasing up wood suppliers.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s what you get for interrupting my poem.’

  And he was gone.

  BUCHAN’S CATCH

  (THE TRUE TASTE OF SCOTLAND’S FINEST FISH)

  Buchan House, Brunel Street,

  Shortstaine Business Park

  Mr Suit held out his hand for the printouts. ‘Thank you, Janice. Tell Ted I’d like to see him in the boardroom in ten minutes please.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Telford.’ She pivoted on her heels and clacked out of the room, no-nonsense bob swinging in time with her footsteps.

  He scanned the paperwork then slid it across the desk to Callum. ‘We have a strict vetting policy and rigorous health-and-safety training for all our staff. All references are followed up. Random drug tests. Etcetera, etcetera.’ He made circular motions with his hand – like the Queen waving out of a carriage window – showing off two signet rings and a gold bracelet with his name engraved on it: ‘NORMAN’.

  The view from his office window wasn’t really grand enough to justify the floor-to-ceiling glass. It looked out on the factory complex, in all its stainless steel glory. A ballet of forklifts and containers, hoppers of salt and preservatives, a row of industrial units with their processions of raw and smoked fish. And beyond that, a set of grey warehouse buildings with the ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens logo on them: a smiling rooster making a thumbs-up with his wing, a mini pastoral scene in the circle behind him. Steam coiled up from the slaughterhouse.

  ‘If you turn to the back, Detective Constable, you’ll find Appendix B lists everyone we’ve had to let go over the last six months.’

  Callum scanned the names, then passed the list to Watt. ‘Any absenteeism?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Mr Suit shook his head. ‘We disapprove of that kind of thing. My workforce is highly motivated and dedicated to the task of delivering the most cost-efficient smoked fish and fish-derived products to market.’

  Sounded lovely.

  ‘Quick question for you: where do you get your wood from, for smoking?’

  ‘For our luxury undyed range? I’ll have to check with procurement.’

  Callum forced a smile. ‘Thank you, that’ll be a great help.’

  He pressed a button on the desk phone. ‘Janice? Get me Charlie.’

  GORDON REID & SONS

  (MAKE IT A FINE FISH DAY)

  10 Admiralty Place, MacKinnon Quay, Castleview

  Callum nodded. ‘Take your time.’

  Seagulls screamed on the roof opposite, fighting over something grey and slimy.

  Mr Short-And-Limpy curled his top lip, staring down at the printout.

  It wasn’t a big yard, certainl
y not compared to Buchan’s Catch. Barely room for a stack of empty fish boxes; a couple of Calor gas bottles; a big yellow plastic container heaped with reeking bones, heads, and guts; and a garden shed with a set of folding chairs, a wee card table and an overflowing ashtray. The door wide open to let the cigarette smoke out.

  Rain danced on the shed roof, making it rattle like a drum.

  Barely room for the four of them in here, but it was better than standing out there in the rain.

  Mr Short-And-Limpy shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He passed the sheet of paper to Mr Ageing Hippy. ‘What do you think, Chris? Recognise any of them?’

  ‘Hmmm …’ A frown. Mr Ageing Hippy took the fag out of his gob and shook his head, setting the dreadlocks swinging. ‘Nope, sorry.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ Callum took the printout back. Folded it so the picture of Brett Millar, Benjamin Harrington, and Glen Carmichael didn’t get creased. And slipped it into his pocket. ‘It’s OK, you finish your break: we’ll see ourselves out.’

  Watt followed him down a dank corridor, past a billowing cloud of bitter wood smoke, and out into the rain again. ‘You know this is a five-minute walk from the flat they were doing up on Customs Street, don’t you?’

  ‘Yup.’ He ducked his head and hurried across the road to the pool car. Plipped open the locks and scrambled inside.

  Bleak granite buildings loomed on either side of Admiralty Place. Ancient warehouses with boarded-up windows, five-storey terraces with rust-streaked fronts, the slow whirl of evil seagulls.

  A thump and Watt was in the passenger side. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence?’

  ‘Could be. Maybe.’ He pulled out his Tupperware box and popped the lid. Today’s note was just a message, no picture, no puns: ‘I KNOW THINGS HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT, BUT NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS I LOVE YOU EVEN MORE THAN NUTELLA AND PICKLES.’ He slipped it into his jacket before Watt saw it.

  ‘Oh come off it – there’s a smokehouse right here, and up there Ben Harrington’s lying in a bath full of brine, waiting his turn to be kippered. And … Can you not do that please?’

  ‘I’m starving, OK?’ Callum stared down at the sandwich – cut on the diagonal as if he were royalty – a bag of Asda’s own-brand salt and vinegar, and a ‘fun-sized’ Snickers bar. ‘It’s well after two, and we’ve not stopped for lunch yet.’ He pulled out one triangular half of the dubious sandwich and sniffed it. There was a faint whiff of mushrooms and a sort of savoury cheesiness.