A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Bastard …’

  McAdams appeared in the doorway. ‘I found Watt’s car parked out back. What’s … Oh Christ, is that smell what I think it is?’

  ‘We’ve found Ashlee’s mother.’ He ran his torch across the floor around the tank, then back towards Abby Gossard … There was another body, lying against the wall, part hidden by a tarpaulin.

  Please don’t be Ashlee. Please don’t be Ashlee.

  Callum inched closer, picked up the edge of the tarp and folded it back.

  It wasn’t Ashlee.

  If anything it was worse.

  Detective Constable Watt lay on his side, one knee drawn up, head lying on his arm. Something black had dried in a thin line from his nose to his cheek. Another line down the side of his neck from his ear. His skin was so pale it fluoresced in the torch beam.

  ‘Watt, you silly sod.’

  McAdams cleared his throat. ‘Is he …?’

  Callum knelt beside Watt, laid the torch on the dirt floor, and pressed two fingers in under his jaw.

  ‘Well?’

  A tiny quiver pressed against Callum’s fingertips. Then another. Faint, but definitely there.

  ‘Call an ambulance! Call it now!’

  67

  Mother barged through the double doors, scattering a couple of paramedics in her wake. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Watt’s in surgery.’ Callum hitched a thumb over his shoulder at McAdams – slumped in a plastic waiting chair with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. ‘This one, on the other hand, probably should be.’

  McAdams didn’t even move at that.

  She puffed out a huge breath. ‘He’s going to live, though, right? Watt’s going to make it?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. Someone tried to cave his head in with an adjustable spanner. Nearly succeeded, too.’

  ‘Gah …’ She sank into the chair next to McAdams, put a hand between his shoulders and rubbed. ‘Are you OK, Andy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Callum, get a doctor. Tell them—’

  ‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic.’ McAdams creaked himself up till his back was straight again. His eyes were red and puffy, shiny in the overhead light. ‘I was there, Mother.’ He stared down at his hands. ‘I was there at Thaw Cottages and I left him.’

  ‘Andy, it’s not your fault, it—’

  ‘I gave him a bollocking, I gave him a pep talk, and then I got back in my car and I drove away.’

  She cupped his neck with a hand. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  ‘If I’d stayed and searched the buildings with him, it might never have happened.’

  ‘Shh …’ Mother leaned in and kissed McAdams on the forehead.

  Callum pulled up another plastic chair and sank into it. ‘I’ve called the SEB, the Procurator Fiscal, and Hairy Harry. SEB got there before the ambulance, everyone else is on their way.’

  McAdams scrubbed a hand across his sunken eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Boss, we’ve got a problem: whoever tried to kill Watt, it definitely wasn’t Tod Monaghan. Not unless he’s stitched himself back together after the post mortem and broken out of the mortuary. He was working with someone.’

  She stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘And whoever it is still has Ashlee Gossard.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘So, what if Paul Jeffries didn’t die twenty odd years ago?’ Callum scooted his chair closer. ‘What if the male remains, in the shallow grave, were another victim? Not someone to sexually abuse, but someone to take the blame. What if Jeffries faked his own death and he’s still out there?’

  ‘Callum, Callum, Callum.’ McAdams shook his head. ‘Do you have any idea how many shades of stupid that is?’ He held up a hand before Mother could do more than open her mouth. ‘And I mean that with the greatest respect. One: if you’re faking your own death like that, you need someone to actually find the body, otherwise what’s the point? Two: Jeffries would be in his seventies by now, remember? And three: he was a sex offender with a thing for abducting and raping women. Why on Satan’s shiny earth would he suddenly change to abducting young men to starve, brine, smoke, and turn into mummies? Think it through.’

  Yeah. It was a bit of a stretch.

  Callum shrugged as heat bloomed in his cheeks and ears. ‘Just playing Devil’s advocate.’

  ‘Of course you were.’ McAdams sighed, then stood. ‘The brass aren’t going to like this, not after the triumphant press conference and all the drinks. We’re going to need a scapegoat, a statement, and another public appeal.’

  ‘Urgh.’ Now it was Mother’s turn to curl up into a ball in her seat. ‘They’re going to blame me for this, aren’t they?’

  ‘Tell them it was my fault.’ McAdams patted her on the shoulder. ‘It was, after all. I should never have left Watt on his own.’

  Callum checked his watch. ‘If we hurry, we’ve still got time to get something on the Ten O’clock News. We can probably make the first editions too.’

  She looked up at him. ‘What are we going to appeal for? We have no idea who Monaghan’s partner was. We have no idea what they look like. We have exactly sod-all clue what we’re doing.’

  McAdams pulled his bony shoulders back. ‘We’ll think of something. We always do.’ A sniff. ‘Well, usually, anyway.’

  Mother rolled her eyes. ‘It’s official: we’re doomed …’

  Callum picked at the dirty lining of his cast. ‘There’s got to be something we can do. What about Brett Millar? He’s still off his face on prescription meds right over there, isn’t he?’ He nodded at the windows lining one side of the corridor. Across a darkened courtyard, the merciless Victorian bulk of the secure psychiatric ward was just visible through the rain. ‘We get a warrant and we force them to pump him full of something to bring him back down to earth. Then we sweat him till he tells us what the hell happened in that flat!’

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘They wouldn’t give us a warrant yesterday, or the day before.’

  Mother gave them a pained smile and a nod. ‘Let’s give it one more go, then.’

  ‘Good.’ Callum pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll call the—’

  ‘Actually …’ She looked away. ‘Maybe you should leave it to us.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Callum, you can’t go ordering warrants if you’re suspended from duty. I’m amazed you managed to get the SEB, pathologist, and PF to go visit Thaw Cottages. The Sheriff’s not going to be that understanding.’

  ‘Oh.’ His shoulders slumped.

  ‘I appreciate the thought, though.’ She stood, rubbed at the small of her back. ‘Right, Andy, let’s get cracking. And see if you can drum up a uniform to stand guard at John’s hospital bed. I don’t want anything else happening to him.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  She smiled at Callum. ‘Go home. Read a book. We’ll let you know if anything happens.’

  He stood there, grinding his teeth as they walked away.

  Mother and McAdams disappeared through the doors and that was it: abandoned again.

  Lovely.

  All because of DCI Reece Sodding Powel.

  And Ainsley Dugdale, of course.

  Callum ran his good hand across his face, straightened up and marched out. Through the double doors, down the corridor past waiting rooms and treatment cubicles and shuffling old people …

  A large woman in a flowery blouse and pencil skirt emerged from a door up ahead. Stethoscope around her neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She stepped into the middle of the corridor, hands on her hips, then marched away from him, shoving through the doors. ‘Mr McAdams?’

  Callum hurried after her, through into the reception area: lined with posters about healthy eating and venereal diseases; packed with miserable-looking people in various stages of despair, waiting their turn.

  ‘Mr McAdams?’ She was still going, stout little legs
pumping, trainers squeaking on the pale grey floor.

  Callum caught up to her as she pushed out of the main doors and into the night. She stopped there, under the hospital canopy, hands on her hips again. Staring out into the rain. ‘MR MCADAMS!’

  But there was no sign of him, or Mother.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Some people just …’ She clicked her mouth shut. Looked Callum up and down. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I work with DS McAdams.’

  ‘Gah …’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Then can you do me a favour and ask him … no: tell him, force him to call my office and set up an appointment. He’s not impressing anyone with this he-man routine.’

  ‘OK. And you are?’

  She dug into the pocket on her blouse and produced an NHS Oldcastle card. ‘Dr Fitzpatrick. And I’m not kidding about: he needs to call me and make a frigging appointment. Cancer isn’t something that just goes away on its own.’

  Callum frowned down at the card. ‘Is this about his chemotherapy?’

  ‘It would be, if he’d actually turn up to his clinical appointments.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Please, just talk to him, OK? He won’t answer any of my calls, or texts. We need to get him in and we need to get his treatment started. He’s going to die otherwise. And I’m not talking in some obscure theoretical sense: he – will – literally – die.’

  But …

  ‘I mean it: he’ll die.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She spun around on a squeaky heel and pulled out her mobile phone, poking at the screen as she thumped back into the hospital. ‘Angie: I need a CT scan for Mrs Stoltzman …’

  Either she was helping herself to the contents of the medicine cupboard, or something very wrong was going on.

  Callum hurried out into the car park, but the thing was huge, stretching all the way from here to the maternity hospital, broken into various chunks along the way. No way of telling where Mother would have parked her manky Fiat Panda.

  So he ducked into a bus shelter and scrolled through the contacts on his phone. Clicked on the one marked ‘DS CRAP POETRY’.

  It rang for a bit, then McAdams was on the line, his voice muffled – almost drowned out by the grumbling engine. ‘Are you missing me already? That’s sweet.’

  ‘I just bumped into a friend of yours.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘A Dr Fitzpatrick.’

  The only noise from the other end was the engine.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She says you’ve not been going to your chemotherapy sessions.’

  ‘Well, that is interesting. Hold on, I’ll have to text that information to you … Yes.’

  ‘What the hell are you going on about?’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it. Not a problem … OK, bye.’ He hung up.

  Callum stared at his phone. Dr Fitzpatrick wasn’t the only one raiding the medicine cupboard.

  He dialled McAdams again, but it went straight through to voicemail: ‘You’ve reached Detective Sergeant Andrew McAdams. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, but—’

  Callum killed the call.

  Five seconds later his phone buzzed and dinged an incoming text.

  What U playing at? Can’t talk

  in front of Mother!!!

  Shes gt enough 2 worry abt

  already!

  He leaned back against the bus shelter and poked out a reply:

  The doctor said you’ve not been

  going to chemo. You told us you

  were.

  Ding, buzzzzz.

  I’ll call U when we get bk to

  DHQ. Dnt B a dick about this!

  Oh, so Callum was being a dick, was he?

  You’re the dick! Why aren’t you

  taking your chemo treatment? Do

  you WANT to die?

  Ding, buzzzzz.

  Yes.

  Oh.

  The Mondeo was where Callum had left it, double-parked across a pair of matching four-by-fours. He unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel.

  So McAdams was skipping his chemo and didn’t want Mother to know about it. Fair enough. It was his life. What was left of it.

  Callum rested his forearms on top of the steering wheel. Rain bounced off the car’s bonnet, clattered on its roof, made a small river in the gutter, overflowed into a spreading loch in the car park.

  Suspended.

  Of no use.

  Abandoned.

  Well, sod the lot of them. Ditch the car back at Divisional Headquarters and hit the Bart instead. Pick up his bike from Hedgehog. Maybe have a pint or three. Or four.

  After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

  Not now they’d chucked him off the case.

  Something upbeat and poppy was playing as he walked into the room. The Dumbarton Arms was virtually empty, just a pair of youngsters trying to climb inside each other in one of the booths at the back. All hands and tongues.

  Callum shook the rain from his hair and stepped up to the bar. ‘Hedgehog.’

  The barman froze in the middle of loading a case of Bacardi Breezers into the fridge. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Is that any way to greet a valued customer?’

  He straightened up and turned. Tucked his hingin-mince hair behind his ears and faked a smile. ‘Detective Constable MacGregor, how delightful of you to grace us with your patronage once more. I trust things are on a more cheerful footing with your good self?’

  ‘Pint of Trade Winds and a packet of pickled onion, thanks.’

  ‘Only I don’t think I could realistically survive another night of suicidal music playing on an endless loop.’ He pointed at the couple in the corner. ‘And it would ruin our young lovers’ esprit d’amour. Please?’

  Callum hauled himself up onto a barstool. ‘Thanks for taking care of my bike.’

  ‘Does this mean we’ll be permitted to enjoy a Radiohead-slash-REM-free night?’

  ‘Promise.’

  All the breath flopped out of Hedgehog. Followed by a smile. ‘In that case, dear Detective Constable, this first libation, and its accompanying comestibles, comes to you courtesy of the Dumbarton Arms in fulsome gratitude.’ He pulled the pint and set the glass down in front of Callum. ‘And while we’re talking of fulsome gratitude, will we be settling our bar tab from Thursday at some point today?’

  ‘Ah …’ He dug out his fiver and his small handful of change. Set the lot down between them.

  ‘Five pounds, eighty-three pence. And a button?’

  ‘They suspended me without pay, Hedgehog. You’re looking at all the cash I’ve got in the world right now.’

  A long, gravelly sigh. Then Hedgehog pushed the small pile of cash back towards Callum. ‘In that case, shall we come to an accord? I propose the Dumbarton Arms retain possession of your bicycle until sufficient funds are at your disposal to make the appropriate remuneration. How does that sound?’

  Irene Brown pawned her teddy bear and kids’ toys to pay for food and rent. And here he was pawning his bike to pay for an alcoholic bender.

  Proud moment, Callum. Really proud.

  ‘Thanks, Hedgehog.’ He took a sip of his pint, then swore as his mobile dinged and buzzed.

  Incoming text message.

  No prizes for guessing who that would be from: bloody Haiku Boy.

  Callum pulled the phone out and stuck it on the bar top, next to his crisps. But it wasn’t McAdams, it was ex-sergeant Bob Shannon.

  Callum, I’ve got some good news:

  the OAPs finally came up with a

  name!

  Where are you? I’ll come get you.

  He popped open his bag of pickled onion and crunched through a couple. Then wiped his fingers clean on his trousers and replied:

  Too late. Gareth Pike gave me the

  ID this af
ternoon. I’ve already

  been round – denies everything.

  There was barely time for another mouthful of beer before his mobile burst into life. Shannon again. ‘Bob.’

  ‘Callum. You went round to see him? What happened? Did he cop to it?’

  ‘Did he hell.’ Another couple of crisps vanished in a hail of crunching. ‘Said he wasn’t there, he didn’t attack my parents, he didn’t abduct my brother. And if I want to talk to him again I’d better have a warrant with me.’

  ‘Pfff … What about the night your mother’s head was dumped in the woods?’

  ‘Oh he’s got an alibi for that. Hundreds of them: all over Twitter and Facebook.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was on tour with his band. There’s loads of pictures online of him up on stage in Brussels.’

  One of the heavy petters surfaced for air, then shuffled his way to the bar, grinning. ‘Yeah, can I get a Glenmorangie and a bottle of the strawberry-and-lime cider?’ He turned and waved at the bearded friend he’d left behind at the table.

  ‘Bob, you still there?’

  ‘Sorry. Did you say he was on stage in Brussels? Brussels, like the one in Belgium?’

  Callum took another scoof of beer. ‘Have you been hitting the Malbec again, Bob?’

  ‘No. Just surprised, I suppose. Didn’t think he’d be able to perform any more. Given his condition.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? He’s been all over the radio, TV, and papers for about a week, banging on about his grand-finale career-comeback gig tonight. In Montgomery Park?’

  ‘Erm … Callum, who are you talking about?’

  ‘The man who abducted my family: Leo McVey.’

  ‘Yeah. No. That’s not the name I’ve got.’

  68

  Shannon pointed through the windshield. ‘That’s us there.’

  The house sat on its own, on the outskirts of Auchterowan, just visible through the trees bordering the property. Not quite a Georgian mansion, more a bungalow with delusions of grandeur. All the lights were on, its windows glowing, casting a warm golden glow out into the front garden. A winding gravel drive, threading its way between rhododendron bushes to the front door and double garage.

  At least it had stopped raining. Up above, a patch of stars glared down at them from a hole in the clouds. About as welcoming as a mortuary drawer.