A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  Watt humphed.

  ‘What?’

  He looked out of the window. ‘Left mine back at DHQ.’

  Ha, ha, ha. Tough.

  Callum caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror.

  Don’t be a dick.

  Ah well …

  He held the half-sandwich out. ‘Here.’

  An articulated lorry grumbled past, hauling a pair of shipping containers.

  Watt didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Watt accepted the triangle and took a bite. Chewed. Frowned. ‘Erm, what is it?’

  Callum popped open the crisps, poured them into the Tupperware and stuck it on the dashboard in easy reach of them both. ‘The thing is, if they’re the ones smoking the bodies, why did they leave him to rot in the bath?’

  ‘I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just … unusual.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you just pop up there one night, after dark, and bring him back for smoking?’

  ‘No, but really: what’s in this?’

  ‘Why just leave him there?’ Callum had a bite of his own half. Wasn’t too bad. Maybe Elaine had a point after all? ‘Leftover tuna casserole, cheese, and hot sauce.’

  ‘Oh.’ More chewing. ‘I quite like it. Spicy.’ He helped himself to some crisps. Crunched. ‘You heard Dr McDonald: Imhotep is a perfectionist. Ben Harrington wasn’t properly prepared, so he swells up in the bath as the bacteria get to work. His stomach bursts and he’s not good enough to preserve. So Imhotep leaves him where he is.’

  ‘Maybe. Worth checking, anyway.’

  Fog gathered on the car windows, turning them opaque.

  Callum finished his half. Sooked his fingers clean. ‘When I was wee, we used to go on caravan holidays. Mum and dad were mad on them – bundle the family into the car and go live in some field, sleeping in what was basically a large aluminium shed. Eight or nine times a year, every chance they got.’

  That got a noncommittal grunt from Watt, as he polished off the last of the crisps.

  ‘Nairn, Banff, Sandend, Findochty – that kind of thing. But the favourite was Lossiemouth. Every year, regular as the swallows, the MacGregors would pack up the Travel Scrabble and migrate to their spiritual home, hauling a caravan.’

  ‘Are you going to eat that Snickers?’

  ‘Yes.’ Callum unwrapped it. Sighed. Then cracked it in two. ‘Go on then.’ Popped his own half in his mouth. ‘Every time we went to Lossiemouth we’d charge up and down the beach, go rockpooling, collect seashells. And we always spent at least one day in Elgin. Dad would go see some friends – which was code for the pub – and Mum took Alastair and me to the museum. They’ve got a Peruvian mummy there.’ He frowned. ‘All naked and curled up with hands against its chest, and its knees against its hands, and its head bent forward … Used to think it was the most fascinating thing in the world. A real live dead body.’

  Watt let out a long contented breath and settled back in his seat. ‘I wonder if it’s worth checking with the planning department to see if anyone’s put in an application to build a new smokehouse?’

  ‘Then one day they had a display all about the guy who donated it to the museum. Turned out that in the area where it came from, the mummies weren’t just dead people: they were elevated to the position of gods. That freaked me out. Stood there staring at it for ages.’

  ‘And we should crosscheck all the staff lists, see if anyone’s been doing the rounds. I’ll get them rattled into a spreadsheet and we can sort them by name, or company, or start and end date. Should be pretty straightforward.’

  ‘It wasn’t a dead body, it was a god. I was standing there looking at a genuine, one hundred percent, real live Peruvian god. And I couldn’t help wondering: what would happen if it woke up?’

  STRUMMUIR SMOKEHOUSE AND VISITOR CENTRE

  (FROM GLEN TO SEA, PRESERVING SCOTLAND’S HERITAGE)

  19 Chapman Street, Strummuir

  Watt coughed. Grimaced. Leaned towards Callum, keeping his voice low. ‘Is it just me, or are you getting fed up breathing in smoke?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Their guide waved at them to join him in the smokeroom. ‘This is the best bit.’ Mr Trendy had to be in his forties, far too old to be dressing up in skin-tight jeans and Converse trainers. Star Wars characters posed on his right arm, various X-Men on his left, all of them tattooed in bright LOOK AT ME!!! colours. A tweed waistcoat and a T-shirt with a badger on it completed the ensemble. At least he’d hidden his stupid auld-mannie haircut under the obligatory food-hygiene white hat.

  Callum stepped through the big wooden doors and onto the concrete floor. Heat radiated off the pile of wood in the middle of the room, sending up tiny orange sparks and a constant barrage of pungent wood smoke. ‘Yes. Very good.’

  Mr Trendy pointed upwards. ‘We don’t churn out “product” like the industrial big boys, but hey, who wants to eat chemically dyed fish, stuffed full of preservatives and additives? Not me!’

  Racks of hanging fish reached up into the smoky gloom above them, then the sun must have come out, because that grey mass turned a brilliant white, silhouetting the herrings and haddocks and God knew what else.

  ‘We don’t even use stainless steel – all our poles are beech, sustainably harvested from The Swinney.’ He held his arms out, as if he’d just won a marathon. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Yes. Very good.’

  Mr Trendy led the way back onto the processing floor. ‘We think natural materials are very important. And it’s not just tradition for tradition’s sake: the fish tastes better this way. That’s why our smokehouse is built from local larch and granite.’

  Two men in jeans and T-shirts were layering and salting fish – in wooden boxes, not plastic, of course – listening to some sort of terrible accordion-and-banjo music on a non-traditional and non-sustainable iPod docking station. A walkway ran around the room, about twelve foot up, and a group of cagouled tourists leaned on the handrail, taking selfies with the action in the background. Thrilling.

  ‘And we do a roaring trade in preserving courses for gourmets, gourmands, and the epicurious. But it’s not just smoking: it’s cheese making, charcuterie, pickling. We’re building some wood-fired ovens for a bakery course, if you’re interested? Or I run a foraging class, that’s always popular – we don’t have many hedgerows, but there’s mush-rooms, nuts, berries, sorrel, wild garlic?’

  Watt dug the printout of Glen Carmichael, Brett Millar, and Ben Harrington from his pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

  ‘Hmm …’ Some heavy duty frowning. ‘I think, maybe this one? On the end with the ink? Sure I’ve seen him somewhere.’

  ‘What about your staff?’

  ‘I don’t know if they’d recognise them, I can ask though?’

  Watt gave him a smile. ‘Please.’

  Mr Trendy marched off with the printout.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Watt lowered his voice again. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Definitely has that hipster thing going on. Dr McDonald said he’d be able to blend in with Glen, Ben, and Brett. He’s definitely got access to a smokehouse. And he recognised Brett Millar.’

  A nod. ‘I think Darth Wolverine just became Suspect Number One.’

  ‘Darth Wolverine?’

  ‘You know, because of the tattoos? Star Wars, X-Men?’

  ‘Oh.’ Callum shrugged. ‘I was calling him Mr Trendy.’

  Someone else in jeans and T-shirt lumbered in, pushing a hand truck stacked up with more wooden boxes. Short and compact, with a close-cropped haircut and the kind of faded-blue tattoos on his upper arms and wrists that screamed ‘I’ve been in prison!’ Mr Trendy waved him over.

  Watt shook his head. ‘Darth Wolverine’s got more of a ring to it.’

  ‘So: we do some digging.’ Callum got out his mobile and c
alled Control. ‘I need a PNC check on one Finn Noble, mid-forties, don’t have an address.’

  ‘Give us a minute …’

  Mr Hand Truck took off his glasses and frowned at the photo. Then up at Mr Trendy. Who pointed over at Callum and Watt.

  Then a frown. A nod. And Mr Hand Truck was off, tipping his boxes, sending ice and gutted fish splashing across the flagstone floor as he darted back out through the door he’d come in.

  Watt thumped Callum on the arm. ‘We’ve got a runner!’ He sprinted across the room as the tourists swung their mobile phones round, grinning and filming.

  ‘Sodding hell.’ It was nearly impossible to get up any speed on the ice-slicked floor, but Callum did his best, hammering after Watt – past Mr Trendy and his staring minions, skidding around a slew of broken boxes, and thumping through the door.

  Down a short corridor.

  BANG – out through the door at the far end and into a rainy courtyard with a walk-in fridge off to one side and a stack of wooden pallets in the corner.

  Mr Hand Truck made straight for them, arms and legs going, head down, with Watt in hot pursuit.

  A leap, and the wee tattooed bloke scrambled up the pile of pallets like a monkey. He didn’t pause at the top, just hurled himself over the top of the courtyard wall.

  Watt clambered up after him.

  Come on, up we go …

  Callum leapt, grabbed a handhold of splintered wood and hauled himself up the wobbly pile. Sprawled over the lip and onto the top one. The whole stack rocked when he stood up. Yeah, no way this was safe. He lunged for the wall, feet scrabbling at the whitewashed stone as the whole mound of pallets clattered to the flagstones.

  Aaaargh …

  One leg up and over. Then the other one and he was lying on top of the wall. A short section of roof sloped down towards the swollen river, the slates slick with rain. No sign of Watt or Mr Hand Truck.

  Deep breath.

  He launched himself onto the roof, crouching low, arms spread out as his shoes slithered on the damp slates. A wooden deck wrapped around the side of the smokehouse about ten feet below, complete with tables, chairs, and patio umbrellas. A handful of people standing and staring, some with their mobile phones out, filming something just out of sight.

  Callum dropped onto his backside and slid the last three feet. Popped over the guttering and dropped. Landed with a grunt in the shattered remains of a wooden table and broken patio umbrella.

  Watt was on his back next to the wall, wrestling with Mr Hand Truck – trying to grab his hands and failing. A fist smacked into Watt’s cheek with a dull slap, sending his head bouncing off the decking.

  Then Mr Hand Truck grabbed the patio umbrella’s base: a round lump of cast iron, big as a manhole cover but twice as thick, with a foot of splintered wooden pole sticking out of it. Raised the whole thing above his head like a makeshift hammer, muscles in his arms bunching with the strain.

  Watt’s eyes went wide. He snatched his arms in front of his face. ‘NOOOOO!’

  Callum dropped his shoulder and charged, hurling himself into the base as it swung down, knocking it sideways into the wall.

  Clang.

  His hip thumped into Mr Hand Truck, sending him bouncing off the wall too.

  A knot of arms and legs.

  Some swearing.

  Thumps.

  Then pain ripped its way up Callum’s leg – bursting out from his inner thigh. ‘Aaargh!’

  He snapped around and there was Mr Hand Truck with his teeth buried in Callum’s trousers, about eight inches from his groin. ‘GET OFF ME!’

  Callum smashed the heel of his hand into the biting scumbag’s nose. It made a satisfying crunch, and he reared back, eyes closed, blood exploding from his nostrils.

  ‘Aaargh, you dirty …’ He grabbed his inner thigh. Dear God, that stung …

  Mr Hand Truck pitched backwards onto the decking, making groaning foamy noises as little bubbles of blood popped from his broken nose.

  Callum was shoved into the wall again as Watt wriggled out from underneath.

  ‘You!’ Watt hauled out his cuffs, floppy fringe all bent and twisted. ‘STAY DOWN!’

  But Mr Hand Truck wasn’t having any of it. He rolled over and fought his way to his feet then lurched off across the decking, scattering tourists all around him.

  There was a gap in the railing – stairs down to the grassy river bank.

  He staggered down the steps, leaving a trail of red drops on the wooden boards, Watt limping after him.

  Callum hauled himself upright. Struggling on his unbitten leg. Gritting his teeth. Making for the stairs in painful hops.

  A jetty poked out into the dark-grey water – no more than a dozen feet long, with a couple of rowing boats tied up on both sides. A week of constant rain and the river was in full bore, breaking over the jetty’s uprights, pinning one rowing boat against the wooden posts while the other was stretched downstream pulling its mooring line tight.

  Mr Hand Truck stumbled his way onto the jetty, both hands clutched over his nose.

  Watt closed the gap. ‘GET BACK HERE!’

  ‘Urgh.’ Come on, move. Callum limp-hopped down the stairs.

  Mr Hand Truck came to a halt at the end of the small jetty, looked back over his shoulder, then jumped into the rowing boat on the upstream side. Which promptly overturned and dumped him in the river. ‘Aaaaaaaargh!’

  He disappeared under the roiling gunmetal water. Thrashed to the surface, snatching handfuls of air as if he could pull himself up with them. Disappeared underwater again.

  Didn’t come up.

  No, no, no, no …

  Callum managed a wobbly run, every other step sending rusty shards of metal digging into his thigh.

  Watt paced the width of the planks, staring down into the dark water. ‘Sodding hell.’

  A huge fountain of spray and Mr Hand Truck burst into view again on the opposite side of the jetty. Coughing, spluttering, and screaming. ‘HELB! HELB!’ Arms flailing.

  ‘Oh God.’ Watt froze, his voice just audible as Callum lumbered closer – talking to himself. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything stupid … Argh!’ Then he whipped off his jacket and dived into the water.

  ‘No!’ Callum staggered to a halt on the jetty.

  Mr Hand Truck thumped into the other rowing boat. ‘I CAN’T SWIMB!’ His face dipped beneath the water, then he struggled back into the air. ‘HELB!’

  And there was Watt – bursting out of the gunmetal water right next to him. He grabbed a handful of Mr Hand Truck’s T-shirt, his other hand catching hold of the boat.

  The river made bow waves against them both, rising up and curling away in breaking white spray. Shoving.

  ‘HELB! HELB!’

  Watt bared his teeth. ‘Stop struggling!’

  Tattooed arms flailed, whipping up spray, eyes wide, mouth open.

  Then CRACK, his elbow landed right in the middle of Watt’s face, snapping his head back and knocking him under the surface. When he burst into the air again, blood made a dark pink slick down his chin. ‘Gagh …’

  ‘HELB!’ Mr Hand Truck snatched at him, clambering up Watt like a ladder, forcing him down beneath the surface again.

  Oh no …

  Callum teetered on the jetty’s edge.

  Oh God, he was going to have to jump in, wasn’t he? Into the fast-flowing dark-grey water. And hope he came out again alive.

  He whipped off his jacket, ripped off his clip-on tie.

  ‘HELGGgggggggllllbb!’ The river took a firm grip on Mr Hand Truck’s head and torso, yanking him back and around, breaking Watt’s hold on his T-shirt and sending him spinning away into the torrent.

  Oh Christ.

  Too late. Should have leapt in straight away. Shouldn’t have stopped to think about it.

  Watt spluttered his way back to the air, snatched at the boat with both hands as Mr Hand Truck was swallowed by the
Kings River.

  Should’ve just done it.

  Someone swore.

  He turned and faced a barrage of camera phones, all pointed at the swollen water. Half the people who’d been out on the decking were leaning on the rail. The other half had made their way down the stairs to the river bank. And they were all filming.

  Oh that was just great – the whole fiasco, captured for all eternity and uploaded onto YouTube. So everyone could see him standing there, doing nothing.

  Why the hell hadn’t he jumped? He’d hesitated and now someone was probably dead.

  Yes, but Watt wasn’t. He still needed rescuing.

  Do it.

  Jump.

  Get your cowardly backside into gear and—

  Watt hauled himself up the side of the rowboat and tumbled inside. Lay in the bottom of it, on his back, heaving in great gulps of air. Coughing, both hands clutched over his chest. ‘Arrgh …’

  There was no sign of Mr Hand Truck. Nothing but that roiling expanse of hungry water, growling away around the curl of the bank. He was gone.

  And this was officially a monumental cock-up.

  33

  Callum wrapped one arm around the ladder and reached out with his other. Beneath his feet, the river surged, rain making dimples in the steel-coloured surface that merged and disappeared. Only to be immediately replaced. The rowboat’s mooring line was just out of reach, so he tried again, leaning further out over the rolling water … Got it.

  Watt was still flat on his back, soaked through, panting, eyes closed. Blood made a dark smear through his beard – bright red at the corner of his mouth.

  So Callum pulled. Hauled. Braced his legs against the ladder’s steel rungs and dragged the boat closer to the jetty, fighting the river all the way. Until the boat bumped against the bottom of the ladder.

  Watt still hadn’t moved.

  ‘Anytime you like!’

  A groan, then he sat up. Puffed out a breath. Crawled to the prow. ‘Did you get him?’