A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  The other window didn’t give any view at all – it was completely covered in hardcore pornography. Sheets and sheets of it, Sellotaped to the glass. The couch was pushed back against one wall, clearing a space in the middle of the room for a wooden coffee table covered in plastic sheeting. And right in the middle of that, a mahogany-coloured body, curled up on its side, hands against its chest, knees against them, head bent forward at an impossible angle so the face was hidden.

  The air was thick with the cosy enveloping smell of wood smoke.

  Callum licked his lips. ‘Yeah …’

  Franklin puffed out a breath. ‘Bloody hell. It was him. Tod Monaghan was Imhotep.’

  And now he was dead, washed up on the river bank, facedown in the mud.

  It was over.

  No one else was going to die.

  43

  Ashlee’s head made a dull ringing noise as it thumped back into the metal tank. She sniffed. Blinked. Stared up into the darkness. ‘And I’m sorry, Billy. I’m sorry I made fun of your lisp in Mrs Roslin’s class. I’m totally, totally sorry.’

  The rats were asleep again, but they’d hollowed her out. Now the only things left were the jabbing pain in her stomach and the throbbing fire in her skull. It washed against the back of her eyes, like waves on a pebble beach. Hissing. In and out. And in. And out. And in. And out …

  ‘And I’m sorry, Mr Khan. I’m sorry I used to steal Mars Bars from your shop. I’m sorry, I was stupid, and I’m sorry.’

  There weren’t many tears left, and the words were getting more and more difficult to make with her scorched-earth mouth and sandpaper throat. A tongue like a strip of cork matting, like they used to have in the kitchen before Dad ripped it out. Before he ripped everything out.

  The words hurt, but what else could she do?

  Dying.

  All alone.

  Here in this tub of manky water that she can’t drink without being sick.

  Dying.

  In the dark.

  There was nothing left, but to say sorry. Sorry for every horrible thing she’d done in her thirteen long horrible years on this cold horrible earth.

  Saying it over and over. Grinding through her life: full of lies and petty hurts and jealousies and spite and spit and cruelty. Again and again. Remembering new horrors with every repetition.

  Like binge-watching the worst box-set ever.

  ‘And I’m sorry, Marline. I’m sorry for everything.’ She scraped in a deep, gritty breath. ‘I’m sorry for not being a better friend. I’m sorry for saying you looked like a fat minger all those times. I’m sorry for stealing your lunch money in primary seven. I’m sorry for breaking your hair-straighteners and blaming it on Sarah MacIver. I’m sorry I told everyone you had herpes in second year when it was just a cold sore. I’m sorry for snogging Peter and saying I didn’t. I’m sorry for shagging Peter and saying I didn’t.’

  A little laugh turned into a sob. ‘He was crap, by the way.’

  The darkness blurred, and when she blinked, the shapes lurking out there refused to come back into focus. Her mother was little more than a fuzzy blob, slumped against the wall, chain tight around her neck.

  ‘And … and I’m sorry, Mummy. I’m completely utterly sorry. I was so horrible to you and you didn’t deserve it and I’m a horrible bitch and I lied all those times and I stole and I cheated and …’ Her breath rattled like a half-empty cereal box. ‘And I let him in! Oh God …’ The metal tub rang with the sound of her slamming her head back against it. Once. Twice. Three times. The chain around her neck rattling and clanking. Smashing her head back harder and harder till it drowned out the burning waves inside her brain. ‘I let him in and now you’re dead and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mummy. It’s all my fault …’

  But her mother couldn’t forgive her, because her mother was dead.

  So Ashlee waited till the sobbing stopped, and the stabbing pains in her stomach faded to a muffled scream, then went back to the start.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry, Mrs Buchan, for … for stealing money from your purse when you babysitted me …’

  Because what else could she do?

  44

  Callum’s phone finally went to voicemail. He gave the old man in Flat Six a pained smile. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Heat pervaded the living room, throbbing out of the fake coal fire beneath the fake mantelpiece. A single standard lamp glowed in the corner, fighting against the dark rainy night and losing. Not one picture or photo on the wall. No books on the shelves, just a collection of dusty porcelain cat ornaments.

  The old man’s shoulders rose beneath the threadbare cardigan. ‘Don’t matter.’

  Curled up in his lap, an evil-looking ginger cat scowled out at Callum: You’re not welcome here, this is mine.

  ‘And you don’t remember seeing any visitors, or anything like that?’ He crossed to the window. Good view of the street from here, even at this time of night. Tod Monaghan’s building was directly opposite, but this side didn’t have an attic conversion, so Callum had to crane his neck up to see the flat. Even from this close, it was impossible to tell that one window was clarted in hardcore porn. Doubtful the old guy could have seen anything more than shadows on the ceiling from here. Like the ones playing across it now; hunched figures thrown into stark silhouettes by the occasional hard-white burst of a camera flash gun.

  Two patrol cars blocked this bit of Bellfield Road, one at each junction, their blue-and-whites spinning solid bars through the rain. A dirty Transit van sat outside the building across the road, a slow progression of SOC techs in Smurf suits making their way in and out again. All caught in the streetlights’ sickly yellow glow.

  The old boy scrunched his face up and let out a huge sneeze. ‘Urgh …’ He wiped his nose with his fingers, then rubbed them dry on his cardigan. ‘No. No visitors. Keep ourselves to ourselves, don’t we, Tannhäuser?’

  The cat gave Callum another stare. We hate you: go away.

  ‘Right, well, if you remember anything: give me a call, OK?’ Callum left a Police Scotland business card on the mantelpiece and let himself out. Stood on the drab grey landing and pulled out his phone. Checked his call history. ‘HOME ~ INCOMING, TODAY 21:05’ was right there at the top of the list.

  Lovely.

  He pressed the button. Listened to it ring. Then Poncy Bloody Powel’s voice sounded in his ear.

  ‘Callum. We said eight o’clock. It’s gone nine.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, is our serial-killer investigation interfering with your evening? Because while you’re sat on your backside, on my couch, I’m doing door-to-doors here.’

  ‘Callum, we agreed.’

  ‘No, you agreed. I’ll get there when I get there.’ He hung up on Powel and called Mother instead. ‘Nothing doing. A whole building full of people and not one of them saw a single thing. Ever.’

  ‘Ah well, it was worth a try. Thanks, Callum. Get yourself back to the Mobile Incident Centre and we’ll call it a day.’

  ‘Will do.’ He thumped down the bare stone stairs and out through the front door. Into the rain.

  The Mobile Incident Centre – AKA: DS McAdams’ red Shogun – was parked not fifteen feet away, its paint turned the colour of dried blood by the streetlight, exhaust curling up into the cold damp air.

  Callum hurried across the road and scooted into the back. ‘Any luck?’

  Franklin had the other half of the seat, Crimestoppers brolly wedged between her knees. ‘Kingdom of the blind. Never seen so many people who never look out of their windows.’

  ‘Welcome to Oldcastle.’ Sitting in the passenger seat, Mother rummaged in a small paper bag, then passed it back, chewing around the words: ‘Could be our Tod was just very good at not being noticed?’

  Franklin helped herself, then tossed the bag to Callum. ‘I know this might sound a little odd, but I was expecting a bit more … I don’t know, drama? It’s never like this in the movies, is it? There
’s meant to be a big high-octane showdown when you catch a serial killer.’

  McAdams turned in the driver’s seat. ‘Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box.’

  Mother’s eyes bugged, then she hit him on the arm. ‘Andy! Callum’s mum …’

  ‘Oh, yes. Indeed. Sorry, Constable MacGregor.’ As if bringing up severed heads was nothing more than a minor faux pas right now.

  Callum glared at him.

  Mother hit him again. ‘Andy, apologise properly.’

  Sigh. Then a nod. ‘Constable MacGregor: I’ll admit that I enjoy winding you up, but I would never ever joke about someone’s dead mother. It was thoughtless of me and I’m genuinely sorry if my comment upset you.’ At least he sounded sincere.

  Callum shrugged. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the story’s emotional climax. Let’s make it … “Jodie Foster being hunted in a darkened basement” instead.’

  Franklin glanced at Callum for a moment, then back to McAdams. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we caught him, but it feels like a bit of an anti-climax.’

  ‘I understand. You wanted more drama.’ McAdams shook his head. ‘My dearest Franklin. Real life is never so bold. Death is a dull thing.’

  Callum plucked a green jelly baby from the bag and sent it to its doom. ‘Don’t knock “dull”. When it comes to serial killers, “exciting” is to be avoided at all costs.’ He liberated an orange one and passed the bag to McAdams. Peace offering. ‘Do you remember Ian Zouroudi?’

  ‘Gah …’ McAdams’ shudder must’ve been contagious, because Mother caught it too.

  ‘Changing the subject,’ she retrieved her jelly babies, ‘we should go out tonight and celebrate.’

  Franklin scooted forward in her seat. ‘Karaoke?’

  Mother smiled. ‘There’s none as fervent as the recent convert. But I don’t see why not, if …’ She pointed through the windscreen. ‘Clap hands, here comes Cecelia.’

  A figure in full Smurf had stepped out of number 39 and peeled back her hood. Now she stood in the rain with her face to the clouds, little tendrils of steam rising from her damp black hair.

  Mother poked McAdams. ‘Give her a toot.’

  He did, leaning on the horn just long enough to make her start. Stare. Then disappear into the filthy Transit van for a moment. When she returned she was clutching a little red umbrella in one hand and an evidence bag in the other. She wandered over and knocked on McAdams’ window.

  He buzzed it down. ‘Four bargain buckets, three with corn-on-the-cob, one with beans, and a Diet Coke, please.’

  ‘Oh. Ha. Haha. Oh.’ Her face barely moved. ‘Is this you practising your kerb crawling, Andy, or could you just not live without me?’

  Mother leaned across the handbrake, smiling up at her. ‘Sorry. Just wanted to know if you’d found anything. You know, significant?’

  ‘What, other than the mummified corpse on the coffee table?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got a number of small ziplock bags full of mushrooms from the fridge and freezer that look pretty damn magic to me. And when we took off the bath’s U-bend the thing was full of dark liquid with herbs and wee bits of bark and stick floating in it. Sound familiar?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And we found these.’ She produced the evidence bag from behind her back with two watches, and an assortment of piercings, plugs, and rings in it. ‘They were in a shoebox under the bed.’

  McAdams held his hand out, as if his drive-through order had actually arrived. Cecelia passed it over and he peered at the contents. ‘Looks like serial-killer trophies to me. This big leathery monstrosity, unless I’m hallucinating again, was Ben Harrington’s watch.’ McAdams held the evidence bag out in the middle of the car, like Mother’s sweeties. ‘Anyone recognise anything else?’

  Difficult to tell, but then one piercing looked very like another.

  Franklin pointed. ‘I think the red-and-white flesh tunnel might be Glen Carmichael’s.’

  Callum raised an eyebrow. ‘Flesh tunnel?’

  ‘Don’t be filthy. It’s what they call those hollow tubes they stretch their earlobes with. Glen Carmichael had a red-and-white one with a skull-and-crossbones in it.’

  McAdams held the evidence bag up to the car’s inner light. ‘And there it is. Ladies and gentlemen, our case officially has an airtight lid. The novel is finished. It’s time for the epilogue.’

  ‘Cecelia?’ Mother gave her a little wave. ‘Tell your little friends that we’ll be celebrating tonight at the Dumbarton Arms. There will be karaoke, but the first round’s on me.’

  She took the evidence bag back. ‘Deal.’

  The sound of fingers battering away at keyboards filled the little office, everyone hunched over their computer, the printer in the corner making whirring clunks every now and then to break the monotonous clicking.

  Paperwork, that was another thing they never mentioned on the recruitment posters. Join Police Scotland: spend half your time filling in forms and the other half being covered in other people’s sick.

  It wasn’t easy, typing one-handed, but Callum finished off his final door-to-door report and sent it to the printer.

  He powered down his computer, stood, stretched. ‘And with that, our handsome protagonist was first to finish.’

  Dotty swore.

  Franklin and Watt just kept on typing.

  ‘Still all to play for, Dot: silver and bronze aren’t as good as gold, but at least you’d be on the winner’s podium. It’s …’ He cleared his throat and nodded. ‘Detective Superintendent.’

  The woman standing in the doorway had a full-on Kingsmeath facelift – blonde curly hair scraped back from her forehead and imprisoned in an unruly bun at the back of her head. Her grey eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to one side and stared at Callum. ‘And the reason you came to an undignified halt just now, Detective Constable MacGregor?’

  He forced a smile. ‘Just finished my last door-to-door report, ma’am.’

  ‘And we thought we’d rub that in our colleagues’ faces, did we?’

  The tips of his ears went very warm. ‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Serves them right for being slowcoaches.’ Detective Superintendent Ness held up a hand. ‘All right, everyone, hands off keyboards for a moment.’

  A bit unnecessary, as the whole team had already stopped typing and turned to see how much of a bollocking Callum was going to get. But they all nodded anyway.

  Ness stepped into the middle of the room and gifted them a smile. ‘I’ve just been in with DI Malcolmson and DS McAdams, going over Operation Imhotep, and I wanted to stop by and tell you all what a great job you’ve done. Now I know the Divisional Investigative Support Team often gets the smelly end of the stick, but you’ve done yourselves, me, Police Scotland, and more importantly: the victims’ families proud.’

  Even Watt sat up straight at that one, looking like a cat that’d just been offered a spoonful of caviar.

  ‘This was a swift and efficient investigation and you got the right result.’ A little sideways nod. ‘Yes, it’s a shame Tod Monaghan managed to kill himself, cheating the families of a trial, but the important thing is that he’s not going to be hurting anyone else. So well done, all of you.’ She even gave them a solo round of applause.

  Dotty grinned. ‘We’ll be happy to do it again, ma’am. You give us another killer to catch, we’re there.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. Well, the Chief Superintendent wants to add his congratulations to mine. He’s putting on a big press conference tomorrow and he’ll be making sure everyone knows about your invaluable contributions to solving this case.’

  A pat on the back and credit? There would be pigs fluttering past the office window any minute now.

  ‘In the meantime, DI Malcolmson tells me you’re all off to the Dumbarton Arms for a well-deserved drink. First one’s on me, OK? OK. Good.’ Ness wheeched r
ound on her heel and marched out of the office. ‘Just make sure your paperwork’s up to date before you go.’

  ‘… and one orange juice and lemonade.’ McAdams lowered the glass in front of Callum as if it was full of lukewarm urine. ‘Takes all sorts.’

  Word must’ve got out about Detective Superintendent Ness paying for the first round, because the Bart was hoaching with off-duty police officers, SEB technicians, and support staff. All clamouring for their free drink. Laughing, shouting, showing off, enjoying themselves.

  Made a nice change.

  And at least, with the Bart being packed to the walls, Hedgehog didn’t have time to corner Callum and demand payment for last night’s binge session. Small mercies.

  Mother clinked her wedding ring against the double whisky in her other hand, setting the glass ringing. ‘All right, people, as my dear old gran used to say: “HUD YER WHEESHT A MINTIE!”’

  The hubbub died down to a muted roar.

  ‘That’s better.’ She held out her hand and McAdams helped her up till she was standing on her chair, looming over the crowd. ‘Now, I just want to say—’

  A big voice boomed across the pub. ‘Thank you, DI Malcolmson, for getting this lot to quiet down for a change.’

  Everyone turned to face the door, where a massive lump of a man stood in the traditional black T-shirt and epaulettes, a peaked cap tucked under his arm and a moustache on his face. He held up a hand. ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking: the old man’s just here to make sure no one’s sloping off early, but that’s not the case. Not this time, anyway.’ A dark rumbling chuckle.

  He got a couple of sycophantic laughs from the brown-nosed members of the congregation.

  Mother forced a smile. ‘Ladies and gentlemen: Chief Superintendent McEwan.’

  The head of O Division gave a little bow, as if he was expecting a round of applause. He didn’t get one. ‘Today is a proud day for Police Scotland. Operation Imhotep’s excellent result just goes to show what can be done with teamwork and the right management-support from senior officers. This is the essence of modern policing in these challenging times …’