‘Good luck with that.’
There was Billy Jackson’s garage in Kingsmeath. He might do it for cheap with bits from the scrap yard. As long as he matched the colour, who’d know? And it wasn’t as if Billy didn’t owe him a shed-load of favours.
‘Oh girl, you and me, / Living life, / Raising a family …’
Blah, blah, blah.
Sodding Dugdale.
The song chuntered on as the Mondeo clicked, rattled, and growled its way across town.
‘Face it, Callum, it’s not your day today.’ A little laugh broke free. ‘Day? It’s not my week. Month. Year. Hell, it’s not my sodding life.’
One final close-harmony dose of blandness and the song died.
‘There we go, Mr Bones and “Babylove” from their most excellent live set at Tartantula last weekend. Stick with us, we’ve got loads more where that came from on the Lunchtime Sea of Sound with me, Chris Pilot! But first it’s quarter past one and here’s Gabrielle with the news and weather.’
‘Thanks, Chris. Tributes continue to pour in for R.M. Travis as news of his death spreads around the world—’
‘Dirty murdering bastard.’ Callum stuck two fingers up at the radio.
‘—lead singer of ninety’s rock band Wolfrabbit.’
A man’s voice: ‘Yeah, it’s a total nightmare. I mean, he meant everything to us when we were growing up. I know people chuck about the word “genius” like it means nothing nowadays, but he was a genuine hundred percent genius. There’s no other word for him.’
‘How about “serial-killing dick-hat”?’
Technically four words, but it was the thought that counted.
A woman: ‘It’s completely devastating. How could anyone take R.M. Travis from the world? It’s insane. I can’t believe it.’
Maybe the garage could fix the radio too, so it wouldn’t pour crap out into the car?
Another man: ‘R.M. Travis was a not inconsiderable landmark on the British literary landscape. They worship him all over the world, he’s practically a religion.’
And the newsreader was back. ‘Staying close to home, Donny McRoberts, more commonly known as “Sick Dawg” appeared in court this morning on charges of possession of class A drugs, making death threats to police officers, and sexual assault. His lawyers issued a statement outside the Sheriff Court.’
Callum turned it up.
Captain Scruffy’s broad Glasgow burr filled the car: ‘My client deeply regrets that the pressures of work have led him down the path of substance abuse and is determined to get clean.’ Though the accent was still there, he’d dropped all the Weegieisms. ‘He wants to be a positive role model for his millions of fans, and understands he has a lot of work to do to regain their trust.’
Not to mention all the violence against women and breaking his daughter’s arm.
Callum slumped in the seat.
All these years wanting a family, wishing he still had a brother … Why did Alastair have to grow up such an arsehole?
‘We’re asking the court to take into account Donald’s very difficult childhood. And I’m afraid I can’t say anything else about that at this time, but we will be making a further statement when we can.’
‘McRoberts was released on bail to his record company who say he will be honouring all tour dates on his schedule. Local news now and police are appealing for witnesses—’
Difficult childhood.
Suppose that was a bit of an understatement. Growing up in care was bad enough, but God knew what kind of horrors Alastair would have seen the day they were abducted. Did Leo McVey and R.M. Travis make him watch while they killed and dismembered Mum and Dad? Did they do things to him?
The plastic steering wheel creaked in Callum’s good hand. Knuckles swollen and pale.
How long did they keep him for, before dumping him on social services as Donald Newman? Then McVey, visiting him in the care home, year after year …
Poor little sod.
Maybe it wasn’t surprising Alastair had turned out the way he had?
‘—missing four-year-old was last seen outside the Templer’s Vale Shopping Centre in Logansferry. If anyone has any information—’
Callum’s phone went off and he dragged it out. Pinned it between his shoulder and ear so he could turn the radio down. ‘Hello?’
Mother, sounding as if she’d just been run over. ‘The doctors have been on the phone.’
That couldn’t be good. ‘Ashlee’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘It’s John, Callum. A blood clot broke free and … he’s had a stroke. They’re trying to see how much of him they can save …’
Oh no.
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘I’m just letting the team know.’
‘Right. Yes. Look, if there was ever a good place to have a stroke it’s in the Intensive Care Unit of a big hospital, isn’t it? He’s going to be OK.’
There was a sniff and a shuddering breath. Then a cough. ‘Of course he is. You take care of yourself, Callum. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything else.’
‘Thanks.’ He waited till she’d hung up to put his phone away.
‘—finally looks like we’re going to see an end to this weather. There’s high pressure moving in from the Atlantic and that means clear and dry conditions from Wednesday onwards. Best of the sunshine will be on Saturday and Sunday, so bail out your barbecues and get ready for a good weekend.’
‘Thanks, Gabrielle. Now, who fancies a bit of the Bay City Rollers?’
‘No chance.’ Callum switched the radio off again.
‘Oooh.’ The little man in the greasy grey overalls sucked a breath in through his teeth. Wiped his hands on a rag. ‘You’ve totally buggered that one, haven’t you?’ He ducked down again and peered into the rear wheel arch, making the hunch between his shoulders stick out even further, showing off the bald patch at the back of his head. ‘What did you hit, an elephant?’
‘How much, Billy?’
Two cars sat on ramps over matching inspection pits. Shelves and drawers lined the walls, along with a couple of risqué calendars, a portrait of the Queen, a stack of alloy wheels, and a welding kit. A small office off in the corner. The garage’s roll-up door was open, letting in the never-ending hiss of rain. It didn’t dent the overwhelming smell of old motor oil and diesel though.
Billy stood and sucked his teeth again. ‘Your rear wing needs replacing, and the suspension’s wrecked, and you’re gonna need a new tyre, and the airbags are gone, and the exhaust’s loose, and—’
‘Bare minimum, on the cheap: how much?’
‘Then I’ve got to order the parts in from Ford, and you know what—’
‘No.’ Callum held up his hands. ‘No dealership parts. We need to salvage everything from the nearest scrap yard. On the cheap, remember?’
‘Pffff …’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Depends what I can get my hands on.’
Callum stared at him. ‘How long have we known each other, Billy?’
‘Oh come on, I’m trying to make a living here!’
‘Did I, or did I not save your backside when you set fire to Mr Crimon’s car?’
‘I’ve got an ex-wife, two kids, and a cat to support!’
‘He caught you, remember? With your jeans all clarted in petrol.’
‘That was twenty-two years ago. Just because we grew up in a home, doesn’t mean—’
‘He was going to kill you, Billy. Literally. Crimon was going to hold you under the bathwater till you drowned.’
‘It’s not—’
‘Who hit him with that crowbar? Because it wasn’t the Tooth Fairy.’
‘Gaaaaagh …’ Billy stared at the roof. Slumped. Rubbed at his hunch. ‘All right, all right. Much cheapness.’
‘Thanks, and much quickness too, I need it back before anyone notices what’s happened.’
‘I’ll make some phone calls.’ He produced a batte
red mobile phone and wandered off, poking away at the screen.
And all Callum had to do now was figure out how to pay for it. Because, somehow, it was doubtful Billy would accept – quick check in the pockets – three pounds, twenty-one pence, and a button for fixing the battered Mondeo.
Couldn’t even offer his bike in part exchange, not with the Dumbarton Arms still holding on to it as collateral. And the way his luck was running, buying three scratchcards and hoping for a windfall wasn’t going to work either.
So Callum settled back against the workbench to wait. A couple of red-top tabloids sat next to a mug of coffee with ‘WORLD’S WORST HUSBAND!’ on the side. The front page of both was dominated by a photo of Emma Travis-Wilkes and her father at some sort of black-tie event. The pair of them smiling for the camera – him clutching a chunk of Perspex with a sponsor’s logo on it and something trapped inside. ‘BOOKED FOR HER FATHER’S MURDER’ was one headline. ‘THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN BRITAIN?’ on the other.
Going by the crowds outside Division Headquarters that morning, she certainly had to be in the running.
There was a small story sharing the front page with Britain’s most hated woman: a sidebar with a photo of Alastair with his shaved chest, baseball cap on backwards, and the tattooed cartoon fox poking out the waistband of his pants.
‘MY LIVING HELL WITH RAP STAR DRUG FIEND’
Looked as if Irene Brown had sold her story to the papers.
Continued on page four.
Good for her. With any luck she’d got a whole heap of cash for it.
He flipped through to page four.
They’d given her a two-page spread with more photos of Alastair, AKA: Donald Newman (31), AKA: Donny ‘$ickDawg’ McRoberts rapping away on stage. But right across the top was a big picture of Irene Brown (23), sitting in her living room, surrounded by her adoring children. Willow (7) and Benny (6) were striking rapper poses, arms crossed in ridiculous fashion with hands throwing gang signs out the ends. Pouting like ducks. Their little sister, Pinky (4), was dressed up in a long white dress with her hair done up in side buns like Princess Leia, sucking her thumb and clutching a lightsabre – not your standard Disney princess, but it still counted. The baby, Elsa (5 months) sprawled in Mum’s lap, all pink arms and legs.
Irene hadn’t put any make-up on for the photographer, letting the split lip and bruised cheeks shine through instead.
The article was in full-on tabloid sensationalist mode. The sex: rough. The drinking: constant. The drugs: hard. The violence: all the time. Living in grinding poverty while ‘$ick Dawg’ was off drinking champagne, travelling first class, and not paying a penny in child support. And right at the end, they’d asked her why she’d finally found the courage to confront the aggressive drug addict who’d fathered three of her kids.
Callum raised an eyebrow.
Apparently it was all down to him. There it was, in print:
“Detective Constable Callum MacGregor was the first person to be kind to me in years. I’d lost faith in the police, because no one ever cares about people like me,” said Irene, holding back the tears. “But he did. And I owe it to him to stand up and tell the truth about what Donny did to us.”
Dear Lord …
Something went pop deep inside his chest, spreading warmth across his lungs and down his spine.
Wow.
He closed the paper. Smiled. He’d actually made a difference.
Then frowned. Opened it back up and stared at the photo of the Family Brown again.
Donald Newman was really Alastair MacGregor, so that meant Pinky, Benny, and Willow were Callum’s nephew and nieces. He had a family.
A grin spread across his face.
He actually had a family again.
OK, so Willow was a little monster, Benny was different, and Pinky was …
Pinky – dressed up as Princess Leia.
Darth Wolverine – standing there with all his tattoos.
The happy warm feeling seeped away.
Callum dug out his phone and called Franklin. ‘Yeah, hi. Just wanted to know how you were getting on.’
‘Believe it or not, we’re coping without you. But only just.’ It shouldn’t have been possible, but the sound of Franklin rolling her eyes came down the line loud and clear.
‘Sarcasm. Lovely.’
‘Go watch a film, or read a book or something. Some of us have work to do.’
He wandered over to the roll-up door, standing on the threshold, just out of reach of the rain. Looking out on a manky grey alley in manky grey Kingsmeath. ‘Listen, I was thinking about Darth Wolverine. Has anyone—’
‘Darth what?’
‘Watt came up with it: it’s a tattoo thing. Finn Noble, runs Strummuir Smokehouse.’
‘Is this going to take long? Only I’ve got eight more people to interview before the building shuts at five.’
‘He’s probably the trendiest hipster there, right?’
‘Callum, can we not—’
‘He’s had access to the smokehouse all along. He’s the one who decides which ex-cons get to work there. He runs the courses – smoking and charcuterie and all that – so he knows the names and addresses of everyone who attends. He’s in charge. He can come and go as he pleases.’
‘You think he’s Imhotep?’
‘You didn’t see him when Monaghan went into the river: shouting the odds, swearing. He even took a swing at Watt. Bit extreme for someone who just employs the guy, isn’t it?’
‘Well …’
‘And Noble said they never hire anyone who’s a sex offender. Tod Monaghan had form for indecent assault, and he raped that bloke who wouldn’t press charges. How is that not a sex offender?’
‘If the victim wouldn’t press charges, maybe Darth Windolene didn’t know about it? They probably don’t put soft intelligence on file when they send people for work placement.’
‘But they’d put the indecent assault in, wouldn’t they?’
‘Hrmmm …’
Outside, a couple staggered past – the pair of them in ripped jeans and baggy T-shirts. Soaked to the bone, laughing, and sharing a half-bottle of vodka.
‘Think about it. He teaches people how to smoke things. He’s more hipstery than Ben Harrington, Brett Millar, and Glen Carmichael put together. He’d fit right in, just like Dr McDonald said Imhotep would.’
‘Callum—’
‘He teaches a foraging class too. That means mushrooms. How much do you want to bet he can get his hands on all the psilocybin he wants?’
The laughing couple dissolved into the distance, consumed by the downpour.
Callum turned his back on the rain. ‘Come on, Finn Noble’s got to be worth a closer look. You said the only person without a criminal record there was the woman who did the chips. What was Noble in for?’
Nothing from the other end.
‘You still there?’
‘I’m looking at my notes.’
‘Just ask him where he was when Watt was attacked. See if he’s—’
‘Thank you, Constable. I might just be a lowly woman, but I do actually know how a police investigation works.’
Callum closed his eyes. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry.’
‘Should think so too.’ A sigh. ‘He’s gone out for lunch, but Dotty interviewed him this morning. I’ll check with her, see what he said.’
‘Great. And call me back?’
‘You’re a pain in the backside, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yup.’
‘Right, you’re in luck.’ Billy stuck his head out of the little office. ‘Frazer McFee and Son have a diarrhoea-brown Mondeo estate in stock – engine’s completely seized, but everything else is salvageable. And they’ll let you have the bits you need for three hundred.’
‘Pounds?’
‘No, Jelly Tots. Of course pounds. Cash, so no VAT, and … What?’
Callum fiddled with a spanner. ‘I’
m a bit, strapped.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He disappeared back into the office. ‘They’ll give us a ten percent discount if we dismantle the thing ourselves. And you’ll owe me, understand!’
Callum followed him into a gloryhole of paperwork, files, and random bits of machinery. ‘How long?’
Billy filled a little kettle from a little sink and stuck it on to boil. ‘If I abandon everything else? Lunchtime tomorrow.’
That would be doable, wouldn’t it? He’d just have to keep his head down till then and hope Mother didn’t ask for her Mondeo back. ‘Thanks, Billy, you’re a star.’
‘Just don’t tell anyone.’ Billy shook his head. Sighed. ‘I’m a fool to myself.’ Then delved into the filing cabinet. ‘You want a Pot Noodle? Got chicken-and-mushroom, or Bombay Bad Boy.’
Easy. ‘Chicken. Why would anyone—’ His phone went off and Callum swore. Pulled it out and checked the screen: McAdams. ‘Sorry, got to take this.’ He walked back out into the workshop while Billy peeled the foil lids off the pots. ‘Is Watt OK?’
A small pause. ‘He had a stroke. How would he be OK?’
‘When Mother called she sounded … I don’t know. Anyway, if it’s not Watt, what do you want?’
‘I’m dying.’
This again.
‘I know.’ Callum settled back against the workbench and flicked through the other paper. Sex scandal. Sex scandal. ‘MY DRUG BINGE HORROR’ by some nonentity from a reality TV show.
‘We need to talk.’
Murder. Sex scandal. ‘“I’M PROUD OF MY CELLULITE!” SAYS CURVY CORRIE BABE’.
‘So talk.’ Cellulite-Pride Week seemed to be nothing more than an excuse to print pictures of celebrities in their bikinis. Germaine Greer would be so proud.
A cough rattled down the phone, followed by another one. And another – hacking on and on.
The next page was an editorial about what a genius R.M. Bloody Travis was, and how everyone would miss his magical imagination.
McAdams’ coughing gave way to wheezing gasps.
Callum scrunched the page up in his fist, spat on it, then lobbed it at the bin. Missed.
A wheezy voice sounded in his ear again. ‘Callum? You still there?’
A Dark So Deadly Page 61