A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Oh God …’ Franklin’s face went a bit more grey.

  ‘Andy and I will stay here and produce briefing notes for Chief Superintendent McEwan, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself while claiming all the credit for catching Imhotep.’ Mother sooked the last smear of tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Right: off you go. Play nice and no running in the corridors.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got no one but yourself to blame.’ Callum picked his jacket off the back of his chair and pulled it on – wriggling the filthy fibreglass cast on his broken hand down the right sleeve.

  Franklin took another scoof of Lucozade. Shuddered. ‘I’m never drinking anything ever, ever again …’

  He crossed to the door and stepped out into the corridor, just as Watt and Dotty disappeared into the stairwell, making for the lifts – the pair of them groaning and shuffling like a cut-price episode of The Walking Dead. Or, in Dotty’s case, The Wheeling Dead.

  Franklin slumped out of the office and followed him down the corridor. ‘It’s all right for you: you don’t have to sit through a bloody post mortem.’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful sod, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘No one else has to watch them hack Tod Monaghan up into little squishy pieces.’

  He paused with one hand on the double doors at the end of the corridor. ‘Teabag never starts his PMs till ten, so Mother’s basically given you a free …’ he checked his watch, ‘two and three-quarter hours to enjoy your hangover in peace.’

  ‘“Enjoy” isn’t the word I’d use.’

  ‘Diddums.’ Callum pushed through into the cabbagey reek of the stairwell.

  Someone on the floors below was whistling the theme tune to Britain’s Next Big Star, only flat as an ironing board.

  Franklin grimaced one side of her face shut and held the Lucozade bottle against it as they started upstairs. ‘This paedophile you arrested last night. It was your Slug man, wasn’t it? Bob Shannon found out who he was.’

  ‘You should go back to the office and lie down. Curl up under one of the desks for a bit.’

  ‘And you went round and … did he admit to killing your mum and dad?’

  ‘Or the disabled toilets on the second floor are a great place for a kip. Well, as long as you don’t snore. You don’t snore, do you?’

  ‘Callum!’

  ‘No. He didn’t admit to killing anyone. Says he saw who did, though.’

  Through the double doors and into the Major Investigation Team’s domain. A lot of the officers milling about here looked every bit as zombied as Watt and Dotty.

  Brainzzz …

  ‘So who was it then?’

  Callum headed down past the meeting rooms. ‘He won’t say.’

  Blakey was in the Sergeants’ Office, scowling away at his computer, elbows on his desk, fingers in his ears.

  The only other occupant was DS Praying Mantis, still sodding about with his audio file – the volume turned up far too loud:

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

  Callum grabbed one of the empty seats and wheeled it over to Blakey’s desk. Thumped down into it. ‘Have you interviewed him yet?’

  ‘I’m at home. I was on the phone to Ashlee and she was answering the door …’

  No response, so he gave Blakey’s shoulder a poke. ‘Have – you – interviewed – Gareth Pike – yet?’

  ‘Oh Christ, not you again.’

  ‘… a child missing?’

  Franklin settled on the edge of the desk, on the other side, hemming Blakey in. Looming. ‘How’s the nose, DS Blake?’

  ‘… said he was looking for it, but he … he …’ Sobbing belted out of the speakers.

  Blakey turned, glowering out from behind his plastic nose guard. ‘WILL YOU TURN THAT BLOODY NOISE DOWN!’

  DS Praying Mantis stuck out his bottom lip. ‘I’m trying to catch a killer here, is that OK with you?’

  Callum poked him again. ‘Pike’s in the cells right now. He’s up before the Sheriff at eleven for having indecent images of kids. Get your finger out.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘… mum. Two Twenty-Three Johnson Crescent, in Shortstaine. Please, he’s got a knife …’

  ‘Blakey, he was there when my parents were abducted. He saw who took them!’

  ‘… on their way. When did it—’

  He dug his fingers into his ridiculous sideburns. ‘I don’t have time for this, I’ve got—’

  ‘I swear to God: if you screw this up, Blakey, I’m going to end you.’

  ‘No, listen. They’re on my mobile …’

  The computer’s speakers screamed.

  ‘GET OFF HER! GET OFF HER! GET OFF HER!’

  Blakey shoved his chair back, yanked a drawer open and grabbed a grey stapler from amongst the pencils, pens, and usual office detritus.

  ‘Don’t hurt my baby! I’ll do anything you—’ More screams.

  He spun his chair around and hurled the stapler at DS Praying Mantis.

  It clattered into the guy’s monitor, bounced and went skittering across the desk, shattering a mug of tea and sending the contents exploding across keyboard, paperwork and the Mantis’s shirt. ‘WHAT THE HELL?’ On his feet, staring down at the big beige stain.

  ‘… on their way. Can you tell me your name?’

  Blakey’s face was the colour of an impending stroke. ‘IF YOU CAN’T HEAR, GET SOME BLOODY HEADPHONES!’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘ALL DAY, EVERY DAY!’ Blakey lurched to his feet, fists clenched. ‘THE SAME BLOODY AUDIO CLIP BLARING LIKE A BLOODY AIR-RAID SIREN!’ Tears sparked in his eyes.

  ‘Well excuse me for trying to do my job!’

  ‘I’ll take good care of you …’

  ‘HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COPE?’ Spittle glowed in the office’s strip lights. ‘TELL ME?’ Bottom lip trembling. ‘HOW?’

  ‘… forever. Won’t that be nice? Forever and ever.’

  Blakey’s shoulders slumped. ‘How am I supposed to cope?’

  ‘Oh God, she’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.’

  He bit his bottom lip, then turned and stormed out of the office, one hand rubbing at his eyes.

  DS Mantis just stood there, mouth hanging open.

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

  Through the office windows, most of the MIT zombies stood or peered over their partition walls. Watching Blakey go.

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

  Franklin blew out a low whistle. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Get away from me!’

  Callum sagged in his seat. So much for getting Blakey to actually do something about Gareth Pike.

  ‘They’ll worship you.’

  Shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.

  ‘You’ll be a god and they’ll worship you.’

  DS Mantis pulled at his shirt, flapping the soggy fabric. ‘Absolutely soaked through.’

  Still …

  More screaming from the speakers.

  ‘You know what?’ The Mantis grabbed a handful of tissues from a box of Kleenex and dabbed at himself. ‘I’m getting really tired of Blakey’s crap.’

  Franklin took another swig of Lucozade. ‘So what now?’

  Good question.

  Shame Callum didn’t have an answer. ‘We can’t force Pike to give up the name.’

  ‘Well … maybe we can trick him into it?’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault Blakey’s wife is shagging around on him, is it?’ More dabbing. ‘Maybe if he wasn’t such a dick the whole time, she wouldn’t have to.’

  Callum looked up. ‘Blakey’s wife’s cheating on him?’

  Odds on it was DCI Poncy Powel.

  ‘I mean, I get it: all this macho posturing and sexist rubbish is his way of overcompensating. “Look at ho
w manly I am; no way my wife’s having an affair!” But enough’s enough.’

  Nothing but crashing and banging from the speakers. Muffled cries. A sob.

  ‘Marline? Can you hear me, Marline? Have you recorded the call?’

  ‘I pressed the button. Please, you have to help them!’

  ‘Well screw him, I’m making a formal complaint soon as Powel gets in.’ DS Mantis dumped his soggy tissues in the bin. ‘Bloody shirt was clean on this morning.’

  ‘It’s OK, Marline. We’re on our way. We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘You have to hurry!’

  Callum stood. ‘Yeah well, I suppose we’ll just have to …’ A frown. He wandered over to the tea-stained desk. ‘Can you play that last bit again?’

  ‘I’ve put up with his crap for six months now and I’m not doing it any more. I’m not.’

  ‘The last bit of the audio file: play it again.’

  Mantis grabbed another handful of tissues. ‘I should’ve marched over there and knocked his ugly block off!’

  OK, fine.

  Callum scooted around the desk and wiggled the mouse in its little puddle of tea till the cursor on the screen hovered over the media player. A couple of clicks and the audio jumped back in time again.

  The authoritarian voice of the Control Room, slightly muffled. Like the recording of a recording: ‘Marline, I want you to record the call for me, will your phone let you do that?’

  A young woman, sniffly and frightened: ‘I … Yeah, completely! I’ve got, like, this app that’ll—’

  A different voice, another young woman, screeching it out: ‘Get away from me!’

  And then a man, barely audible over the shouts and screams, as if he was standing far away from the phone. But there was no mistaking his calm and reasonable tone, the pride in his words: ‘They’ll worship you. You’ll be a god and they’ll worship you.’

  Callum turned the volume up and clicked the mouse again.

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

  Franklin stared at him. ‘Callum?’

  ‘I think we’ve got more victims out there.’

  49

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

  Mother sat back in her seat and grimaced. ‘Well … Maybe?’

  Callum pointed at the media player sitting in the middle of her computer screen. ‘Dr McDonald said Imhotep was venerating his victims. The Peruvians used to transform their dead into gods so they could look after the village. This is what he does: he abducts people and he turns them into gods.’

  She looked over her shoulder to where McAdams was slouching against the filing cabinet, stirring something white and fizzy in a glass. ‘Andy?’

  A shrug. ‘Play the recording from the start again. Let’s hear our boy’s voice.’

  Callum did, setting the speakers crackling.

  They sat and listened all the way through. Frowning at the screen.

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

  ‘You’ll be a god and they’ll worship you. Hmm …’ McAdams stared off into the distance.

  Mother stared at him. ‘In your own time, Andy.’

  ‘Thinking.’ He bared his teeth. ‘I know it’s all muffled, but does our boy sound local to you? I think there’s a big lump of Dundee in there.’ The filing cabinet squeaked as he leaned back against it. ‘And how did this Marline manage to record the whole call?’

  ‘She’s got an app that runs in the background, buffering everything on a loop. Likes to record her boyfriend so she can listen to him over and over again. Find out if he’s cheating on her.’

  ‘Ah, the delights of modern technology.’ A nod. ‘The lad may be right. Imhotep doth make them gods. Now we must find out.’

  Mother sniffed. ‘I like it better when poems rhyme.’

  ‘Don’t blame me, blame the Japanese, / Their haikus flummox, tease, and please, / Though sometimes they may cause unease.’ He downed his white-and-fizzy in a single gulp. ‘It could be that our story has a third-act twist up its sleeve and our dead serial killer is reaching out from the mortuary slab. Can our brave team of misfits overcome their differences to save Ashlee and Abby Gossard in time?’ McAdams put his glass down. ‘Well, assuming they’re not already dead, tra-la-la.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She nodded. ‘All righty. Callum: you and Rosalind go check out this Ashlee Gossard. But do it quickly – let’s not get caught out on the “i”s and “t”s, because we got distracted dotting the “j”s as well.’

  Johnson Crescent was a big horseshoe development of tiny two-storey houses, all squished together into long tenement blocks.

  Callum parked a few doors down from number 223, beneath the yellowing leaves of a sycamore tree.

  Franklin sniffed. ‘Least it’s stopped raining.’

  The sun had even managed to poke its way through the city’s blanket of dove-grey clouds.

  Wonders would never cease.

  This side was still wreathed in darkness, though.

  The rattle and clank of construction stretching from the Camburn Roundabout cut through the damp air as they climbed out and locked the Mondeo.

  Callum stuck his broken hand in his pocket and wandered down the pavement to number 223.

  A line of police tape was tied around the door, but there was no sign of anyone guarding it.

  He let himself in with the keys from the case file.

  A small hallway with stairs up the right-hand side. A row of coats. Laminate flooring with a long smear of dark red curling away down the hall and disappearing through the door at the far end. More smears on both sides, below knee-height, as if someone being dragged had tried to get purchase on the magnolia walls. Smudged bloody handprints on the architrave of the open living room door.

  Franklin peered over his shoulder. ‘Should we not be in SOC suits, or something?’

  ‘DS McCready says the SEB have been and gone.’ Though it had taken a crowbar to get that information out of the Praying Mantis, never mind the keys, or the case file.

  Just to be on the safe side, Callum fought his way into a blue nitrile glove and picked his way down the outside edge of the laminate flooring, keeping as far away from the blood smears as possible.

  The room they disappeared into was a kitchen.

  ‘Yeah … That’s not good.’ Franklin stood in the middle and did a slow three-sixty.

  She wasn’t wrong. There was blood up the walls, little red dots on the ceiling, shattered jars spilling teabags and coffee granules, sugar and cornflakes. A small table lay on its side against the fridge, one leg snapped clean off and sitting in a sticky-looking puddle of scarlet. Two chairs, twisted to splintered bones.

  Franklin curled her top lip. ‘Why all the blood? Tod Monaghan didn’t do this when he attacked Ben Harrington, Brett Millar, and Glen Carmichael. Three of them, and not so much as a drop anywhere. Why the overkill?’

  Good question.

  ‘Maybe Ashlee and her mum wouldn’t eat the magic mushrooms?’

  ‘Nah, you heard the nine-nine-nine call, he didn’t even try. Soon as he was in the house that was it: screaming.’

  Callum eased the broken table out from in front of the fridge. The white plastic door was covered in blobs of black fingerprint powder.

  ‘And he’s never attacked women before, has he? All the other mummies are men.’

  And that was a good point.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Maybe he thought Ashlee Gossard was a better bet: you’ve seen her photo, she’s either bulimic or anorexic. Less body-fat means less water, means easier to preserve.’

  ‘Assuming Ashlee was the target and not her mum.’

  Another good point.

  Callum sat back on his haunches. ‘The only way we’ll know for sure is if we find them.’

  ‘If they’re not already dead.’

 
‘Will you stop it with the good points already?’

  That got him a frown.

  He waved a hand. ‘Never mind. How did your boyfriend’s work’s do go?’

  ‘I’m just saying this doesn’t look like Imhotep’s handiwork. This isn’t his MO.’

  ‘I know.’

  She opened and closed a couple of the kitchen drawers. ‘Apparently the partners kept asking where I was. And he had a miserable time. And it was all my fault, because I wouldn’t drop everything and go simper at his side like a little woman should.’

  Callum stood. ‘Want to check upstairs?’

  ‘He’s always banging on about how he supports my career, but every time it clashes with his career suddenly I’m being “selfish”.’

  There was a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs. A couple of dark footprints on the bottom three steps, then a smear down the wall to the ground again. As if someone had made a run for it, but didn’t get very far.

  Callum tiptoed between them and up the stairs.

  Franklin followed him. ‘You know what I think? I think Mark doesn’t want me to work at all. He wants a trophy wife who’ll settle down and do some volunteer work between squeezing out three kids and baking sodding scones.’

  The landing was clear – no blood spatters.

  She curled her lip. ‘I hate scones.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Callum pushed open one of the three doors – small bathroom with a built-in shower over the bath. Every porcelain surface was clarted with fingerprint powder.

  ‘And why should I sacrifice everything to have kids?’

  ‘I like cheese scones.’ Door number two opened on a double bedroom. Nothing fancy. Blue-and-yellow duvet cover with matching pillows. An array of bottles, jars, make-up, brushes, and associated things on a little vanity unit. Scottie Dog cuddly toy thing. A few framed prints of famous Scottish landscapes.

  ‘You can bet if it was men who had to squeeze three and a half kilos of human being out the end of their penis, they wouldn’t be so damned keen on a big family.’

  ‘They’re nicer if you toast them. Oh, and lots of butter.’

  She stared at him. ‘Children?’

  ‘Cheese scones, you muppet.’

  Door number three: a single bedroom that looked as if a drunken baboon had been locked in there and told to go wild with the clothes and underwear. It was everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, poking out from under the bed, on the chest of drawers, hanging from the top of the wardrobe. Shirts, T-shirts, jumpers, tops, jeans, leggings, jeggings, socks, stockings, tights, shoes, and flip-flops. Add about two dozen bras and pants and mix liberally.