‘Can we talk about this on dry land?’
‘Oh no.’ Watt’s face crumpled.
‘Just get out of the sodding boat. This thing’s heavy!’
A sigh, then he reached for the ladder and worked his way up till he was kneeling in the boat. ‘I couldn’t hold him.’
‘I know.’
‘I tried.’
‘I know.’ Callum shifted himself to one side, leaving enough room on the rung for Watt to struggle his feet into place. ‘Come on. Up you go.’
Watt climbed, dripping water and blood. ‘He wouldn’t stop struggling.’
Callum let go of the rope and followed Watt up onto the jetty. Stood with him in the rain as he folded forwards and stood with his hands on his knees, coughing. Patted his back.
Then flinched as, ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ rang out through the downpour. It was Mr Trendy, marching down the path in his health-and-hygiene white trilby, flanked by the T-shirted guys from the processing floor. He cut a path through the onlookers with their mobile phones. ‘YOU KILLED HIM!’
‘Just calm down, OK?’
‘WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU PLAYING AT?’ Face dark and trembling, hands balled into fists. ‘WHY THE F—’
‘All right, that’s enough!’ Callum held his hand up. ‘Calm – down.’
‘What did he do, eh? Answer me that! WHY DID YOU—’
‘I’m not going to ask you again.’ He hauled out his mobile phone and called Control. ‘I need urgent assistance: we’ve got someone in the water, being swept downstream from Strummuir Smokehouse. Individual is an IC-one male with tattooed arms. Said he can’t swim.’
‘Putting you on hold.’
A tinny rendition of something vaguely classical burbled out of the earpiece, and Callum turned back to Mr Trendy. ‘What’s his name?’
The chest went out. ‘I’m not telling you anything. Tod was just minding his own business and you hounded him to his death!’ A finger poked Callum in the shoulder, hard enough to force him onto his back foot. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Callum kept his voice level. ‘I’m going to ask you to back away, sir.’
Another poke. ‘We’ve got a very good team of lawyers and I’m going to make sure they hang you from the nearest tree by your balls.’
Watt straightened up, still breathing hard. Spat out a gobbet of foamy red spit. ‘All right, that’s enough. You have to step back onto the grass, Mr Noble.’
‘Don’t you tell me what to do! This is my smokehouse and you’re a murdering pair of …’ His eyes bugged, then he took a swing – fist whistling through the rainy air towards Watt’s face.
Only it never got there, because Watt blocked it then rammed his open palm into the centre of Mr Trendy’s chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.
Stood over him. ‘And you stay down, or I’m arresting you.’
Callum limped up the stairs and through into the main office, carrying two waxed-paper cups of coffee that steamed and nipped at his fingers. Every step sent jagged teeth biting into his thigh. The chafing didn’t help, but that’s what happened when you wandered about in wet clothes.
One glass wall looked out over the smokehouse car park, then a small line of shortbread-box houses, and out towards a line of trees. All of it buckling under the weight of the rain.
A couple of patrol cars sat blocking off the car park entrance, blue lights flickering. Keeping all the tourists in.
Watt had perched himself on a big leather couch, shivering, a crinkly silver thermal blanket wrapped around his shoulders – giving him the look of a grumpy baked potato. He held a tea towel full of ice cubes against his cheek and jaw. The skin was already darkening there, the first hints of purple blooming around the edges. Working itself into a decent bruise.
Callum handed him one of the cups. ‘Didn’t know if you take sugar or not.’
‘Thanks.’ He took a sip and winced. Reapplied the tea towel. ‘Any news?’
‘They’ve got the Diving and Marine Unit coming down from Aberdeen. Should be here just in time for rush hour.’
‘Urgh.’ Watt sagged back on the couch. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? I couldn’t hold onto him, and now he’s dead.’
‘Wasn’t your fault.’
More blue flickering lights made their way along the road, past the line of houses. It pulled up in front of the car park and one of its siblings reversed to let it, and the car after it, to enter, then closed the gap again.
Callum groaned. The second car was a horribly familiar, brand-new, red Mitsubishi Shogun. McAdams. Lovely. No doubt here to dump an industrial-sized lump of doggerel and sarcasm on their heads.
Watt sniffed. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Why does every scumbag in Oldcastle try to bite a chunk out of me?’
‘Yeah.’ Another sip of coffee. Another wince. ‘Ow … I called Mother – she’s getting the review organised. Professional Standards and some Chief Inspector from divisional.’
‘Drew blood and everything. Lucky he didn’t sink his teeth in a quarter-inch higher, or I’d be circumcised by now.’
‘Never been involved in a death before.’ Watt shrugged. ‘I’ve seen dead bodies – you know, at crime scenes – and I’ve delivered death messages, but it’s not the same as being responsible.’
‘Don’t be daft: you’re not responsible. He ran. He jumped in. You tried to save him.’
‘Should’ve tried harder …’
There was a knock on the door and Mr Trendy, AKA: Darth Wolverine, AKA Finn Noble shuffled into his own office. ‘Sorry.’ He’d ditched the stupid white hat, revealing a stupid haircut – short at the sides, all quiffed up with hair gel on top. He closed the door. ‘Erm … about earlier, I just wanted to apologise. It was …’ He stared at the toes of his Converse trainers. ‘I got a bit caught up in the moment. I would never try to punch someone. And you’re a police officer, how stupid would that be?’
Watt scowled at him. ‘Very.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ He twisted his fingers into knots. ‘Like I said: I’m very, very sorry.’
Callum took out his notebook. ‘Let’s start with the man we were chasing: name, address, age, shift patterns. Everything you’ve got.’
‘Ah …’ Pink flushed in his ears.
‘And I’ll need the same for everyone who’s worked here over the last two years.’
‘Erm, no. Not without a warrant. I can’t.’
‘What happened to “very, very sorry”?’
‘We operate an outreach programme, OK? A lot of the people who work here have done time. We help them get back into work, teach them a skill, and it’s all rehabilitation, isn’t it? Someone’s working here: they’re making a decent living wage, doing something productive, developing a bit of self-esteem. Not off mugging OAPs and stealing cars.’
‘And what was Tod in prison for, Mr Noble?’
‘It’s not like we employ sex offenders, or anything like that. It’s people who’ve had difficult lives, who’ve made mistakes, who need a second chance.’
‘What – did – he – do?’
Noble licked his lips, all attention focused on those shoes. ‘The gang here have to be able to trust me. If they thought I’d just hand over their personal details, rat on them, without putting up a fight? Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t.’
Watt shifted the tea towel full of ice. ‘I can still change my mind about charging you.’
‘Yes, I know, but I can’t. It’d undo all the good we’ve worked for. Six years, ruined.’
‘OK, if that’s the way you want to play it.’ He stood. ‘Finn Noble, I’m detaining—’
The door thumped open and in marched McAdams, back straight, face like a clenched fist. ‘Well?’
A uniformed PC followed him into the office and shut the door. Stood behind him with her mouth shut and her arms folded.
Callum pointed. ‘At approximately fifteen fifty, Detective Constable Watt and I
were being shown round the smokehouse by—’
‘Thank you, Constable MacGregor, but I think DC Watt can handle it from here. You’re going back to the ranch.’ No haiku, no rhymes, no mocking asides.
That couldn’t be good.
‘DC Watt did everything he could. We’ve got it recorded on about twenty mobile phones: he risked his life to save—’
‘I said thank you, Constable MacGregor. Leave the pool car, DC Watt might need it. You can get a lift back with PC Crawford.’
‘He dived in the river and—’
‘Now, Constable!’
‘Right. OK.’ He put his coffee down on the desk. ‘Fine.’ Then followed Crawford out of the office, down the stairs, through the doors, and into the rain.
She didn’t say a single word all the way back through Castleview, across Dundas Bridge, and through the windy streets of Castle Hill. It was like crawling along through rush hour traffic, being driven by a shop mannequin. Only with less personality. Crawford just sat there, with her face set straight ahead, ignoring every attempt at conversation.
Ah well, can’t say he hadn’t tried.
Some officers were like that, though. Couldn’t actually talk to people unless they were arresting them. Eventually, the job would weed them out and they’d go utilise their lack of interpersonal skills elsewhere. Like teaching or local politics.
No loss.
When she pulled up outside the back entrance to Division Headquarters he hopped out and gave her a cheery wave. ‘Thanks for the lift, it’s been fun!’
It wasn’t far to the rear doors, barely six feet, but by the time he’d pushed through into the building his clothes had gone from damp to wet again.
They hadn’t exactly tried very hard when they were decorating this part: breezeblock walls painted an institutional beige; scuffed concrete floor with suspicious brown stains that were either dried blood or something worse; signs with ‘CUSTODY SUITE →’, ‘PROCESSING →’, ‘← INTERVIEW ROOMS’, and ‘CUSTODY SERGEANT →’ on them. The delightful scent sensation that was microwaved cabbage, fresh urine, and pine disinfectant. A slightly gritty taste of stale digestive biscuits, free with every breath.
‘MacGregor.’
Callum stopped. Turned.
A big man with Seventies sideburns was leaning against the back wall, rolling a packet of Fruit Pastilles back and forth in his fingers. DS Jimmy Blake.
Callum nodded. ‘Blakey.’
The skin around both eyes had darkened like aubergines and there was a thick T-shaped chunk of plastic covering his nose with the arms of the T taped to his forehead. Clearly, when Franklin punched you in the face, you stayed punched. ‘You got a minute?’ At least he didn’t sound quite so bunged up.
‘How’s the nose?’
He narrowed his bruised eyes, the left one focusing somewhere over Callum’s shoulder. ‘You tell your friend, the darkie bitch, I’m not done with her.’
‘Yeah …’ Callum bared his teeth and hissed in a breath. ‘Maybe not the best idea, Blakey. She could kick your arse from here to Kingsmeath and back again without breaking a sweat. Mine too. Let bygones be bygones, eh?’
Blake just scowled at him from behind his plastic nose guard.
‘Oh, and Blakey, I know you’re bigger than me, but if you ever call DC Franklin a “darkie bitch” again I’ll straighten your wonky eye with my fist. OK?’
Outside a siren kicked off, followed by a roaring engine and the screech of tyres. It faded into the distance. A phone rang somewhere in the custody suite.
‘OK.’ Callum patted him on the arm. ‘Good talk.’ He turned and limped down the corridor, towards the stairs.
Blakey’s voice echoed off the breezeblock walls. ‘DCI Powel wants to see you in his office. Don’t keep him waiting.’
Sod.
34
Callum stopped outside Powel’s door. Straightened his clip-on tie. Brushed at a dirty patch on his suit trousers. Probably dried blood, from when that cannibalistic little sod tried to chew his leg off … Yeah. Maybe best not to dwell on that, given what happened next.
Besides, there’d be plenty opportunities for blame and recriminations coming right up.
The stain didn’t come off, just smeared into the damp fabric.
And yes: given this afternoon’s monumental fiasco, an internal review was inevitable. Member of the public dies while being pursued by the police? The newspapers would be stumbling over each other, drunk with righteous-indignation and delight, competing to see who could give Police Scotland the biggest kicking.
But did the review have to happen right away? They couldn’t even give him half an hour to put on dry clothes?
Of course not.
Ah well, no point putting it off. Callum pulled his shoulders back and knocked.
A voice from inside: ‘Come.’
Deep breath.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Powel was behind his desk, face poker still. Mother sat on the couch with her back straight, looking disappointed. A bloke in uniform was next to her, with three pips on his epaulettes – that would be the chief inspector Watt mentioned, here to run the review. And last, but not least, everyone’s favourite avuncular, fake-bumbling, non-sequitur-spouting, inquisitor from Professional Standards: Chief Inspector ‘Call me Alex’ Gilmore.
And they were all staring at Callum. Like a firing squad.
Oh joy.
Powel pointed. ‘Shut the door, Detective Constable MacGregor.’
He did. Nodded. ‘Boss. Detective Chief Inspector. Chief Inspectors.’
Gilmore pulled on a smile. ‘I understand you had a spot of bother out at Strummuir, Callum.’
Understatement of the year.
‘It wasn’t Watt’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The guy ran, we chased him, he jumped in the river. Watt went in after him, but he struggled and the river swept him away.’
‘I see.’
‘It was filmed on about two dozen mobile phones – we commandeered the lot. Soon as they’re checked into evidence, watch the footage and you’ll see.’
Gilmore nodded. ‘I did. At least five of them uploaded the whole thing: Twitter, Facebook, YouTube … We’ll have to call in the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner, but it’s just a formality. Nothing to worry about. As far as I’m concerned you both did everything you could.’
‘Oh.’ A smile crept its way across Callum’s face. Thank God for that. ‘Great. Watt deserves some sort of commendation, though. He blames himself, but he—’
‘Moving on.’ Powel produced a blue folder from his in-tray and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘We got a call this morning from a little old lady walking her border terrier in Holburn Forest. They’d barely gone twenty feet when “Captain Muffin” hauled a carrier bag out from beneath a bush. And do you know what was in that carrier bag, Detective Constable?’
Callum kept his mouth shut.
‘Human remains. A severed head to be precise: female, sawn off between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae. Sound familiar?’
What?
Of course it didn’t. Why would …
Hold on: yes it did. ‘When I was in your office this morning, someone came in and told you about it. You went off to the scene.’
‘And that was the first you knew of it?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I see.’ Powel held his hands out in a pantomime shrug: all just a silly misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. ‘Then would you like to explain how YOUR DNA GOT ON THE BLOODY REMAINS?’
‘My what?’
‘Your DNA. On a severed woman’s head!’
Mother looked away. ‘Did you kill her?’
Callum just stared.
‘Did – you – kill – her?’
‘No, of course I didn’t! Why the hell would I kill—’
‘Then did you dump the remains for someone else?’
‘How … W
hat …’ He threw his arms out. ‘No! I had nothing to do with any of it.’
‘You see, Callum,’ Gilmore took off his evil scientist glasses and huffed a breath on them, drawing it out as he polished the lenses on a hanky, ‘you have something of a reputation for compromising crime scenes, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t been to Holburn Forest for years, how could I contaminate anything?’ He jabbed a finger at Powel. ‘This is the lab cocking things up again. They couldn’t find an angry squirrel in a bean bag, never mind pick out DNA. Just because they buy a machine doesn’t mean they know how to use it.’
Powel pulled out another sheet of paper. ‘The DNA’s degraded, but your name came straight back from the database. Why? Who was she? Why did you kill her?’
‘I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE!’ Though that might change in the next thirty seconds. The blood thrummed at the back of his skull, pins and needles filling his throat, hands clenched into tight fists.
Mother stood. ‘All right, Callum, that’s enough.’ She pointed at the spare armchair. ‘Sit down.’
He stood there, trembling.
‘Sit – down. Now, Constable.’
Callum lowered himself into the seat. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t interfere with the crime scene. I didn’t do anything. It’s a mistake.’ Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was deliberate? Of course it sodding was. ‘Someone’s trying to fit me up.’
Powel went back to his folder and pulled out a photograph. Held it out so everyone could see. ‘Who was she?’
‘I told you: this is nothing to do with me …’
The woman in the photo had to be mid-twenties, early thirties tops. Her long blonde hair, so pale it was almost white, lay plastered against her head – glistening as if it was wet; dark circles around her unfocused blue eyes; skin like the thinnest bone china, speckled with freckles; puffy blue lips; a heart-shaped face; and a neck that ended three or four inches below her chin in a jagged dark-red line.
But that wasn’t what made Callum’s breath thicken in his throat, made his chest contract. It was her ears.
‘Oh God …’
A Long, Long Time Ago
‘Last one there’s a bumhead!’ Alastair was off running before he’d even finished speaking. Cheating bumhead. Sprinting across the pebbly beach, flip-flops sticking out of his back pocket, bandy net slung over his shoulder.
A Dark So Deadly Page 27