Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation

by Nigel McCrery

  He reached out with the hat towards Emma’s head, intending to turn it over quickly and slam it on before any of the tar could escape.

  Lapslie fired at the hand holding the hat.

  The blast shocked the boy. He whirled around, dropping the hat. Tar splattered down his crotch and his legs. He clapped his hands to his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he shouted, but the heat of the tar suddenly seared through the cloth of his trousers and he screamed, high and shrill and long.

  Emma glanced over at Lapslie with terror in her eyes.

  Bizarrely, Gavin began to laugh. ‘Oh God, the colours!’ he said, and then screamed again as the black, molten mass of his trousers clung to every curve of his skin. ‘Oh God, the incredible colours. This is it. This is what I was looking for. This is perfect!’

  He fell backwards, panting and whimpering with the agonising pain.

  Lapslie moved across to free Emma with a pocket knife. She clung to his arm as he pulled her from the chair.

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ she breathed. ‘I was … I—’

  ‘I know,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I know.’

  A sound made him turn around.

  Gavin Stottart had pulled himself up onto the mixing desk. His hands were covered with black, steaming tar, and his was smearing it on the sliders as he tried desperately to capture the sound that he had been seeking all his life – the sound of his own screams.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sea was a sheet of rippled glass extending from the concrete of the flood barrier out to the infinite horizon. There was no mist this time, and Emma could see black objects floating on the water, far away, that might have been birds or might have been boats. It was difficult to tell. She appeared to have lost her perspective somewhere along the way.

  The birdwatchers were still there, still with their telescopes and their binoculars. They were still wearing the same anoraks and holding the same thermos flasks. She could swear they were even waiting for the same bird to appear. She hoped it was worth it.

  One bird among many, looking to the casual observer just like all the rest. Wasn’t that just like police work? You came up with a profile, identified a suspect, arrested him as a criminal, but to anyone else he just looked like one of the flock. Nothing special at all.

  She could hear someone climbing the concrete slope behind her. She had a little bet with herself that it was Lapslie, come to see if she was ready to return to work. It wouldn’t be Dom, that was for sure. He was content to wait for her to come back to him. That was his style.

  A gull cried out overhead, and she flinched. These days, anything that sounded like someone in pain made her heart beat fast within her chest and her mouth go dry.

  A figure joined her and stared out across the water. She turned her head, and was mildly surprised to find it wasn’t Lapslie or Dom, or anyone else she might have expected. It was Professor Peter Wilkinson from Essex University – the man she had asked about genetically engineered wheat, all that time ago. He was slimmer and taller than she had remembered. His North Face jacket whipped around him in the North Sea wind.

  ‘They said I might find you here,’ he said, still staring out into the distance. When she didn’t reply, he went on: ‘Various people told me you were in various places. I tried them all. This was my last option.’

  ‘It’s like the end of the world, here,’ she said quietly. ‘Which is kind of what I want.’

  ‘I want to help,’ he said. ‘I know some of what happened from the newspapers, and some from what people have told me. You don’t need to tell me anything, but I do want to help.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I like you,’ he said simply.

  She thought about Dom McGinley, and about what he might think, might say, might do, and then she thought, what the hell? This is the end of the world. I can do what I like here. No consequences.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think what would help right now is hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream, followed by ice cream.’

  A pained expression crossed his face. ‘I wasn’t expecting to go that far,’ he said, and then smiled.

  She smiled too. Perhaps it was all going to be all right.

  Perhaps.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The drug thorazitol, used to treat Mark Lapslie’s synaesthesia, was invented for this novel. No such drug exists in reality.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to: Andrew Lane, for research, ideas and editorial assistance; Cat and Marc Dimmock, for encouragement and comments at a critical stage of low willpower; and to the indefatigable Robert Kirby, for champagne cocktails and much else. Continued thanks to John Catherall and Dain Morritt, for the use of their names. And a wave to Alec Charles, for adding academic credibility.